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CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


“La vie est un instrument qui on commence toujours par jouer faux.” 



Circe’s Daughter 


BY 

PRISCILLA CRAVEN V 

Author of 

“A Lighted Candle,” “The School of Love,” etc. 


T. 



NEW YORK 

DUFFIELD & COMPANY 
1913 

Z 



Copyright, 1913 
By DUFFIELD & COMPANY 



©CI.A347659 ^ p- 

^0 tL 


CONTENTS 


CHAP. PART I PAGE 

I. — The Game . . w 3 

II. — Circe’s Daughter . . . 15 

III. — The World, the Flesh . . . 24 

IV. — A Toy Mother ..... 34 

V. — Green Bay-leaves .... 47 

VI. — A Mothers’ Meeting .... 63 

VII. — “Love is the only Convention” . . 75 

PART II 

I. — En Route . . . ... 91 

II. — “Live! live! live!” . . . .105 

III. — “ICH LIEBE DlCH” . . . . II4 

IV. — “Not satisfied” 130 

V. — The Girlie Girl . . . .141 

VI. — Une Chambre a Louer . . *151 

VII. — “Miss Fay Morris that was” . . 165 

VIII. — “Two in a Studio” .... 177 

IX. — “Melton Green” .... 193 

X. — “The Star Turn” .... 207 

XI. — “Out at Sea” . . . . . 214 

XII. — “Ashes” 219 

XIII. — A Danger Signal .... 232 

XIV. — An Unemotional Fish . . . 237 

XV. — Why not? 247 


VI 


CONTENTS 


CHAP. PAGE 

XVI. — Nature’s Fault 264 

XVII. — The Great Threshold . . . 274 

XVIII. — Drunk and Disorderly . . . 290 

XIX. — An Amiable Stuffed Animal . . 299 

XX. — Back to “The Game” . . . .311 

XXI. — The Meaning of Life . . . 322 

XXII. — A Sick Man’s Fancy .... 332 

XXIII. — Around the Corner .... 342 

XXIV. — The Strike 360 

XXV. — “Come” 370 


PART I 



? 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


CHAPTER I 

THE GAME 

R ICHARDS looked carefully over the table with the 
eye of the well-trained manservant. He retouched 
a bowl of lilac that offended against his slavish idea of 
symmetry and then put a screen across the dying fire. 

It was the end of May and the night was warm, but as 
Carey Image was to be one of the guests that evening, 
Richards had seen to it that the room was well heated. 
For Carey Image had just come back from five years’ 
sojourn on the frontier of India, and Richards was afraid 
that the rigours of the Eastern climate — particularly try- 
ing to a man in the fifties — might strike a chill into his 
sunbaked body. He was thinking about him as he placed 
the screen, for Richards had been in the Currey family for 
many years, and he remembered well the genial little man, 
generous with his pourboires and “full of pleasant re- 
marks” — the expression was Richards’ own, communi- 
cated to his wife, the cook — who had been godfather to 
the owner of the rooms thirty-two years ago, and had, 
on the occasion of the christening, optimistically prophe- 
side that the baby would grow into a remarkable man. 
Richards had heard the remark, and he now recalled it 
3 


4 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


as he drew the curtains. Was not Carey Image’s prophecy 
coming true? He had been the first in the field, if one 
may use that expression of a prophet, but others now 
began to endorse his opinion. 

“Wonderful how he knew,” muttered Richards to him- 
self, “for babies is that alike, all pink and squally.” 

Then by a natural sequence of thought Richards glanced 
at a large photograph of his master in wig and gown 
which reposed on a table, and which had been taken at the 
request of his mother, who lamented afterwards that it 
made him look too severe and old. A remarkable man? 
No, the title was not yet earned ; for no man is remark- 
able until he is forty and has buried the prophet, his 
godfather. Still, Gilbert Currey was well on the way to 
success, and that very week had seen him take a big stride 
forward. Had not his success in the Driver case made the 
eyes of the legal profession and a good many of the public 
turn towards him? Richards was old-fashioned enough 
to take a pride in the fortunes of his master. 

A slight noise through the curtains which shut off the 
dining-room from the room in the front portion of the 
flat caused the butler to turn. One of the guests had 
arrived early. He must apologize for his master’s non- 
appearance. Gilbert Currey was still dressing ; he 
generally rushed home from his chambers at the last 
moment. 

“Ah !” said a well-remembered voice, “it is the faithful 
Richards. How do you do, Richards, and how have the 
years treated you?” 

Carey Image smiled genially, and Richards, as to an 
old family friend, permitted himself an answering smile. 

“I hope I see you well, sir.” 

“Tolerably, Richards. My bones creak a little. . . . 
Ouf! Was it always the custom to make the rooms 
so hot?” 

Richards, crestfallen, explained. “I will open the 
window wider.” 


THE GAME 


5 


“Yes, do. But it was thoughtful of you, Richards, 
very thoughtful. It seems that everyone looks on me now 

as a salamander So you are here with my godson 

in his flat. How is that?” 

“Well, sir, when Mr. Gilbert came to live in town, my 
mistress was anxious that I should look after him, so 
my wife and I came up here.” 

“Ah ! let me see. Your wife made delicious omelettes. 
I remember them well. So you came here to give him, as 
it were, all the comforts of home. Lucky young dog. 
I am confident of a good dinner now, for I was a little 
doubtful, Richards, as I dressed. Gilbert is not an epi- 
cure, or at least he was not five years ago. He eats — well, 
he eats, and that’s all there is to it. I have come to the 
age when I dine. And I remember your wife’s cooking. 
Will you tell her so ?” 

The compliment pleased Richards and afterwards the 
cook, as it was meant to. Image had been born with 
the knack of saying the graceful thing in the right place, 
and his memory was wonderful. This trick had made 
many friends for him. 

“I will tell my master you are here.” 

“No, no, don’t hurry him. A party of five, eh? To 
celebrate his birthday and his latest success at the Bar? 
He is going to be a remarkable man.” 

“I was just remembering what you said, sir, when 
you came in.” 

Image smiled, and taking off his glasses, carefully 
polished them. “Ah! he was so sturdy and he shut his 
little mouth so firmly — a great deal in the set of the mouth 
even at the early age, Richards — and he knew what he 
wanted so decidedly that I felt there was a career 
before him. He commenced to orate loudly in church, 
and I understand the same oration — more intelligible and 
persuasive — won this much talked-of Driver case. Don’t 
hurry him on my account. I have not yet become accus- 
tomed to the taxi-cabs. Distances by rickshaws and 


6 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


distances by four-wheelers I know, but taxi-cabs — I find 
myself hurrying along like the witch on her broomstick.” 

Richards quietly withdrew, and Image surveyed the 
rooms through his glasses, which made his near-sighted 
brown eyes so extraordinarily brilliant and piercing. He 
nodded in old acquaintanceship to several pieces of furni- 
ture and a few pictures, for Gilbert’s mother had robbed 
Wynnstay Manor for her son’s furnishing. On either side 
of the fireplace were two new portraits which had been 
painted since Image had been away. One represented a 
woman, with delicate colouring and well-chiselled feat- 
ures. The calm blue eyes were shallow as pools of water 
in the sun, and there were no full curves to the lips or any 
indication of deep emotion or temperament. A well- 
preserved woman — Gilbert’s mother. On the other side 
was a companion picture, Sir John Currey, Bart., M.P. 
No weakness there, rather a dominating nature, an iron 
will, a certain ruthlessness in the lines of the heavy jaw, 
a certain coldness in the direct glancing eyes. 

“A capital portrait, my old friend,” apostrophized 
Image. “I wonder if Gilbert will ” 

“Now, Carey, talking to the devil?” broke in a voice 
on his meditations, a full, very masculine voice, that 
filled the room. It made Image’s voice seem effeminate 
and thin. “My old nurse used to say when she found me 
muttering to myself that I was telling the devil too much 
of my mind.” 

“My dear fellow, how glad I am to see you again. It’s 
a silly habit of mine. I and myself, we often talk to one 

another.... Let’s have a good look at you A 

bit heavier — 

“Yes,” said Gilbert laughing ruefully, “I am putting 
on flesh. Don’t get enough exercise. You haven’t 
changed, Carey.” 

“Ah ! I have definitely come to the shrivelled stage I 
was looking at your father’s portrait. Capital! When 
you laugh you are not so like, but your face in repose — 


THE GAME 


7 


very like. I am glad to hear of your success, my boy. 
Johnson Marks was in court yesterday, and he told me 
your speech was truly remarkable for a young man, and 
you know how many young barristers he has heard. You 
must have been very pleased at the successful issue of 
the trial." 

“Yes, I confess I was. I wanted to pull the thing off. 
I made up my mind to get him acquitted/' 

As he said it, the determined set of his mouth was old 
beyond his years and reminded Image very powerfully of 
his father. Then Gilbert smiled and clapped Image on 
the back, and the impression of egoistic ruthlessness was 
dissipated. When Gilbert Currey smiled he had con- 
siderable charm. Women would have let him know this 
if he had found time to court them. 

Richards' voice was heard at the door. “Mr. Iverson/' 

“Hallo, old chap, flushed with victory, eh? Lord! 
what a lot of swotting you must have done over that 
case. Your knowledge of Eastern poisons knocked me 
silly. You're a nut, you are." 

No one could have mistaken Jack Iverson for anything 
else but a Service man. As a matter of fact, he was in the 
Blues, and exceptionally good-looking, with that rare dis- 
tinction in a man — a wonderful clear, healthy skin. His 
eyes a curious jadelike green with the bluish clear whites 
that one usually sees only in the eyes of a small child, Jack 
Iverson was one of the handsomest and richest young 
men that lounged about Mayfair. 

Image did not know Jack Iverson, but he knew the next 
guest, an old friend, Dr. Fritz Neeburg, and he had heard 
of the last arrival, Gilbert's particular friend and college 
chum, Colin Paton. 

The impression Paton made on the casual observer was 
that of a well-groomed reserved man of a very English 
type, and one of the best. There was nothing at all arrest- 
ing in his appearance; he had regular features, smooth 
hair, well-cared- for hands, and a general air of wellbeing. 


8 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


He was three years older than Gilbert, though they had 
been at Oxford together, but he had been delicate in his 
early manhood, and had spent several years in desultory 
travel. Paton’s movements were all quietly deliberate; 
they might have belonged to a man of fifty equally well 
as to a man of thirty. He did not give the impression of 
forceful energy, as did his friend. Quite unlike in char- 
acter and tastes, they were yet excellent friends, and 
though Gilbert would have been at a loss to describe 
or analyse Paton — he had no interest in psychology, 
apart from its bearing on his legal work — Paton had long 
ago realized the possibilities and the limitations of his 
host. 

They sat down to dinner in a pleasant intimate circle 
of yellow light. Richards’ wife had a passion for flowers 
— she would spend hours standing in front of the beautiful 
florists’ displays in the West End, when she took her con- 
stitutionals — so Gilbert’s rooms and table were always 
tastefully decorated. This evening, heavy-headed, frag- 
rant jonquils, rather sick and drooping with their own 
sweetness, nodded from some exquisite Venetian glass, 
while bunched violets in silver bowls added to the spring- 
like effect. Image was quick to notice the flowers. 

“The English flowers! You must have spent ten years 
in the tropics to appreciate them. One gets so satiated with 
gorgeousness and overpowering perfume, just as one 
gets tired of the burning sun and the eternal blue sky. 
But the English flowers one never tires of. There is such 
a wonderful simplicity and purity about them. They 
refresh and cleanse one. In the East there are flowers 
that are positively wicked, one almost starts back 
from their viciousness. But the English flowers are 
perfect.” 

“I saw your lights burning at two o’clock this morning,” 
observed Neeburg; “were you celebrating your victory, 
Gilbert?” 

“No. I was working.” 


THE GAME 


9 


“Don’t overwork, old man. Don’t urge the willing 
steed too fast and furious. I think we are all inclined to 
do that nowadays. Faster and faster physical and mental 
locomotion seems the order of the day.” 

“And that’s how you rake in the guineas, Neeburg. 
You shouldn’t grumble. But I’m as strong as a horse. 
Work doesn’t hurt me. Thank God, I inherited a good 
constitution from my father.” 

“My dear fellow, the strongest horse, if you overwork 
him, will sometimes go lame. You’ve been working very 
hard the last couple of years. Keep things in their proper 
proportions — that’s the secret of life and happiness — 
proportion !” 

“Ah!” said Image briskly, “that’s very true, Fritz, 
only we usually learn that secret when it’s too late and 
everything is out of proportion.” 

“Proportion!” said the host quickly. “How can you 
keep a sense of proportion nowadays? Look at me. When 
you start in the legal profession the proportion is on the 
wrong side. You have nothing to do except to wear out 
the leather chairs at your chambers. Get a move on and a 
few eyes directed to you, and you are very soon swamped 
with work. And if a man doesn’t work for all he is 
worth with a singleness of aim and ambition between 
twenty-five and forty, he will never arrive. You have to 
keep your nose to the grindstone or success will pass you 
by. It’s all very well for doctors to talk of moderation 
and a sense of proportion, but how can you be moderate ? 
Life is immoderate nowadays.” 

“You mean that a man’s ambitions and wants are 
immoderate,” returned Neeburg. 

Jack Iverson, who was quite frankly out of the conver- 
sation, tried to contribute his quota. “I say, what’s the 
good of spending all the days of your youth swotting?” 
he said in his rather rich, lazy voice. “The game isn’t 
worth the candle.” 

Gilbert went on a trifle impatiently. The thing to 


IO 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


do nowadays is to specialize. Make up your mind what 
you can do best, and what you want, and hang on like a 
bulldog till you get it.” 

“A bit of a gamble if you only stake on worldly 
success,” said Paton quietly. 

Image nodded emphatically, and looked curiously from 
one young man to the other. 

“It isn’t such a gamble. I believe most firmly that 
you can ensure success provided that you have certain 
abilities and a fair constitution. You hear a lot of people 
blaming Fate for their non-success in life. How many of 
them have really striven whole-heartedly to get what they 
want? The road to success is a sort of obstacle race, and 
you can’t afford, while you are surmounting the obstacles, 
to either look to the right or the left or even behind you, 
to see who is possibly going to overtake you. Success isn’t 
a chance; it’s a certainty if you concentrate.” Gilbert 
had a very decisive manner, which was worth its weight 
in gold to him in the courts. 

For a moment there was silence as he ceased speaking. 

“Yes, but my dear boy,” said Image at length, “what 
is success?” 

“Making money, I suppose,” said Jack Iverson, watching 
Richards refill his glass. He was glad that he did not 
do any of these strenuous things. He had a secret awe 
and lazy admiration of Gilbert. 

“No,” said his host, “you generally make money if you 
are successful — it follows as the night the day — but I 
should say that very few of the world’s successful men 
have worked for the sake of money.” 

“Well, how do you define it? Notoriety, fame, the 
applause of undiscriminating men who shout with the 
crowd, paragraphs in the halfpenny papers side-by-side 
with an account of the latest high kick of a popular actress, 
a long obituary notice to be followed by a badly-written 
book of biography by one of the family which nobody 
reads — is that worth struggling for?” Paton put the 


THE GAME 


ii 


question quietly, his voice a trifle colourless after Gilbert’s. 

“You are not ambitious, 1 ” retorted Gilbert. “You 
never were. You have always let other fellows walk over 
you, chaps with half your brains. You dream your time 
away/’ 

“No, excuse me, I don’t dream. I hate excessively to 
hear myself classed with those vague, anaemic brains that 
wander like will-o’-the-wisps over the world. You think I 
wasted my time at Oxford because I did not take any 
degree. I don’t. I taught myself how to think. I refused 
to cram my brains with facts most of which would be 
of little use to me in after-life, or to my neighbour. I 
tried to leave a little room for the imagination. Oxford 
appealed to my imagination, and I think I have brought 
something away from her that will be a precious posses- 
sion all my life. You came away with an enormous capac- 
ity for assimilating knowledge, with a well-trained mem- 
ory and a habit of pigeonholing everything and everybody. 
Most useful to you in your profession, my dear fellow, 
but it did not appeal to me as worth working for.” 

“You have no ambition to be labelled ‘successful’?” said 
Image, who had been watching Paton as he spoke with 
his brilliant dark eyes. He found something that he liked 
in Paton, something which he vaguely missed in Gilbert 
and had always missed in his father before him. 

“I don’t care for what is usually called success. Of 
course, many people say that because they know they 
won’t set the world on fire ; and in spite of what Gilbert 
says, there are people who will never, with any amount of 
concentration, arrive; but, honestly, I don’t much care 
what my fellow-creatures think of me from the point of 
view of worldly success — I care very much otherwise; 
and I refuse to try and narrow myself down within the 
cramped little borders of success. I want room to develop, 
and I don’t want to be forced through the world’s mill 
and come out in a certain pattern.” 

“And Gilbert doesn’t care a pin what people think of 


12 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


him ‘otherwise/ but very much from the world’s stand- 
point, that’s the difference between you,” said Neeburg, 
helping himself to a quail en cocotte. “Now, I wonder 
which makes for happiness ?” 

“Oh, hold on !” cried Gilbert, laughing. “I like people 
all right. I protest, Neeburg.” 

Neeburg smiled and shook his head. “Individuals are 
not really necessary to you,” persisted Neeburg. 

“I won’t be made out a hard and miserable mate- 
rialist just because I am honest enough to say I am 
ambitious.” 

“My dear boy, there are many like you,” said Neeburg; 
“and ambition is by no means a bad thing. But with 
you the game is the thing. You are the type of man who 
lives and dies in harness. Men and women are pawns 
in the game of life to you. Once I thought as you do, 
but I was checked in time. And I found it wasn’t worth 
while. Bay-leaves may be bitter.” 

“Well,” said Image; “to every man his own meat and 
his own poison. I’ve met a good many famous men 
in my time, and I can’t recall that any of them seemed 
to be particularly happy. To be great is to be lonely. 
... How delicious these strawberries are!.... I think 
I’d rather be one of the common herd. The big man 
looks over the heads of others in a crowd, but he misses 
a lot of friendly glances and intimate whispers. I even 
like some of the jolly, familiar nudges one gets. No one 
would dare to nudge a great man.” 

The others laughed, and Richards came in with the 
coffee. 

“That reminds me of something that was said to me 
yesterday,” said Neeburg, “by an Anglo-Indian just come 
home. Was no end of a pot in India with absolute con- 
trol over a big province. He was lamenting that it was 
horrible to find himself obliged to use buses and sit next 
to — just anybody!” 

“He doesn’t appreciate the nudges,” laughed Gilbert. 


THE GAME 


13 

“He’s forgotten how jolly they are,” retorted Image, 
with a twinkle. “That’s just what I complain of.” 

Jack Iverson, who had been vainly trying to follow 
“those brainy fellows,” broke in with a commonplace. 
“Well, I hate the people you see in buses and tubes. 
They think they are as good as you, and they always 
seem in such a beastly hurry to get somewhere. And, 
all the time, I suppose most of ’em don’t do anything 
in particular.” 

“No, they only earn their livings,” said Neeburg drily. 

“Well, I’m glad I don’t have to,” said Iverson, lighting 
his cigar. “I’d rather have money than brains. I say, 
I’ve got to rush off soon, Gilbert. Claudia insisted that 
I must go to Lady Laud’s dance at the ‘Ritz.’ Rotten 
fag, bunny-hugging and Gaby-gliding.” 

“Is your sister going too ?” asked Gilbert quickly. 

“Claudia? Yes. I suppose you got an invitation?” 

“Yes, but I had forgotten all about it.” 

“Dancing is a beastly bore. I’m fed up with it,” 
continued Iverson complacently, his striking good looks in 
obvious contrast to his commonplace mind. “I’d ather 
play bridge any day, wouldn’t you?” 

“Well, I don’t dislike dancing, only I can’t afford the 
time. If I go to a dance I always stay too late. And I 
certainly should if I danced with your sister.” 

“Not half a bad dancer, is she? She goes on at me for 
being too lackadaisical. She says she likes a partner who 
feels the music. But how can you feel the Chocolate 
Soldier every night, and what are you to feel? Quite 
imposs. I can’t understand all these delicate sort of 
feelings. They were playing The Rosary’ the other night 
at supper, and the girl with me put on such a die-awav 
air that I thought she felt sick. She was awfully annoyed 
with me for offering her some brandy.” 

There was a general laugh as the men moved away from 
the table. The noise of the traffic outside was like a huge 
buzzing bee; the fresh air, holding a subtle promise of 


14 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


spring, came in through the open casement windows. 

Iverson was the first to break up the party. “Claudia 
will go for me if I don’t get there in decent time.” 

Fritz Neeburg went with him. He never kept late 
hours, for the hand of the surgeon must be steady and 
there must be no overnight fogs in his brain. Presently 
Carey Image Paton and their host, were alone together. 


CHAPTER II 


circe’s daughter 

W ELL, Eve been an unsuccessful man as the world 
counts success,” said Image, as though the thread 
of their early conversation had never been broken, “but 
I’ve had fifteen years of great personal happiness. Can 
one expect more than that in life? Could I have been 
more successful? And I’ve laid up a store of beautiful 
memories for my old age.” 

Everyone knew the story of Carey Image. He had 
himself started out in life at the Bar. When in his thirty- 
second year and well on the road to be a K.C., he was 
briefed as counsel in a divorce case. The woman was 
unsuccessful in divorcing her husband, the definition of 
legal cruelty did not cover practices and habits that had 
reduced a beautiful, healthy woman to a frightened 
shadow; but she was successful in winning a heart that 
had stood between her and the world for fifteen years 
afterwards. Pariahs in social London — for in those days 
public opinion was more cruel than it is to-day — they 
had wandered all over the world together. They had not 
been quite idle, for she helped Image to write several 
books of thoughtful travel that had first set the fashion 
of “wander literature.” She had died five years pre- 
viously, and never once had Image regretted what he had 
given up for her. He had rescued a woman from the 
lowest depths and made her perfectly happy. His worldly 
15 


i6 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


failure in life had been his real success. The look in the 
dying woman’s eyes as they had turned to him had made 
an imperishable crown. 

Gilbert was silent. As a child he had known Image, 
and he had often wondered since if it had really been 
worth while to make a pariah of himself. He was 
answered now. It was so different from his mother’s 
version of the good-looking woman who got Image in her 
clutches and whom he was too unworldly to see 
through. 

“I think that fifteen years of happiness is more than 
most of us can hope for,” said Paton quietly. 

“I remember as a boy,” said Image reminiscently, 
being asked what I wanted to do in life, and I replied 
‘To do one thing well and make one person happy.’ I 
think I did the latter, but in the first I have failed. My 
globe-trotting books are pretty well known, but what are 
they, after all ?” He looked at the portrait of Gilbert in 
his wig and gown, and there was a sort of gentle regret in 
his eyes. 

“Surely you have been successful in both,” said 
Paton. “To love well — isn’t that one of the rarest 
talents ?” 

Image turned on him with his charming smile. “Ah! 
but it was so easy. If you had known her you would 
realize it was nothing to my credit — nothing at all.” He 
said it very simply, as though stating an undeniable fact. 
For a moment there was silence, while the ghost of a 
beautiful, sweet-natured woman passed through the 
room. 

Then Gilbert, who, like most Englishmen, felt rather 
uncomfortable at the sentimental vein into which they 
had fallen, poured himself out a whisky and soda, and 
the prosaic hiss of the syphon dispelled the ghost. 

“Well, I must be going,” said Paton, rousing himself 
from a little reverie and slowly getting out of the big 
armchair; “time for all good children, et cetera. Good- 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


i7 


night, Mr. Image, I am very pleased to have met you. I 
hope we shall meet again.” 

“We are sure to,” said Image cordially. “I wish you 
would come and lunch with me at my club one day? 
You will? Good. I’ll drop you a line. Good-night 
to you.” 

Gilbert went to see him out, and Image, rising, looked 
again at the photograph of him which his mother said 
was too severe. As Gilbert came back to the room he 
compared the original with the photograph. More than 
a presentable man, Gilbert Currey was distinctly good- 
looking. The brow was broad and high, and the hair 
grew thick and strongly. His eyes, which Image remem- 
bered in the baby had been blue like his mother’s, were 
now a darkish grey and the lids fell rather heavily over 
them. This, however, did not give any impression of 
sleepiness, rather that of self-sufficiency and reserve 
force. The nostrils of his well-shaped nose were some- 
what wide, denoting his energy and driving power. The 
chin was rather too heavy, and had he not closed his 
mouth so firmly the lips would have been a trifle sensual. 
Above the medium height, he gave promise of being 
one day a heavy man if he did not exercise sufficiently, 
but now he was still well-proportioned. The two men 
were physically a great contrast, for Carey Image was 
always known as “little Carey Image,” though the 
diminutive indicated affection as well as size. He had 
the small build and fineness of the Japanese. 

“Well, cousin Carey,” laughed Gilbert as he met the 
ruminative gaze of the brown eyes, “sizing me up, eh? 
Find me much changed?” He took out a pipe and 
commenced to fill it. 

“No, very little, surprisingly little. You’re going to 
be like your father. How is he?” 

“Well, and fiercely combating socialism and all the 
other revolutionary ‘isms.’ You can imagine how much 


i8 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


he likes the democratic tendency of the times. He gets 
grimmer over them every time we meet.” 

Image smiled. “Yes, politically I find a great change 
in England since I left it. But it’s interesting — very. . . . 
Your friend Paton is very charming. What does he 
do?” 

“That’s a difficult question to answer. I can’t reply 
“nothing,” because he is always doing something. Much 
more energetic than he looks. His father is urging him 
to go into Parliament, and I think he will later on. But 
at present he says he is ‘informing himself,’ whatever 
that may mean. He is helping Sir John Tollins with his 
Prison Reform Crusade at the moment, and he is visit- 
ing various institutions all over the country.” 

“Ah! yes, a sociologist. Such men do very useful 
work. And what is Mr. Jack Iverson?” 

“A rich young ass,” laughed Gilbert. 

“Sir,” said Carey with a twinkle; “that is not in- 
formation. I can see into shop windows as well as 
you.” 

“Well, he’s in the Blues; but I always think of him 
as Claudia’s brother.” He said it without the slightest 
embarrassment, just as he might have referred to his own 
uncle. 

“Claudia! A pretty name. Is she as pretty as her 
name ?” 

“Prettier. But they are a wonderfully handsome 
family. Looks on both sides.” 

Image lit another of his French cigarettes, and then 
he said gently, “And have you any designs on the pretty 
sister ?” 

“Yes,” said Gilbert, with a curious thoughtful delibera- 
tion. “I think — I think I shall marry her.” 

A look flashed into his godfather’s eyes at the — to him 
— curious way in which a young man expressed his in- 
tention of asking a woman to confer the greatest honour 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


i9 


upon him. But the modern young man was always as- 
tounding Carey Image and making him wonder if he 
had lost his bearings in India or if some mischievous god 
had deliberately turned things upside down. 

“I was going to ask you if you had any plans other 

than worldly Is Miss Iverson likely to do you the 

honour to ?” 

Gilbert broke in rather abruptly. The subtle reproof 
had passed him by, immersed as he was in his own 
thoughts. “You know the family? Mrs. Iverson was 
Sybil Daunton-Pole, and Geoffrey Iverson is Lord 
Creagh’s third son.” 

“Why, of course; I wondered why the name was 
familiar.” A light broke in on him and he became 
animated. “I remember — why, yes. She was the woman 
who made such a sensation when she was first presented, 
and her portrait was painted as Circe and exhibited 
at the Academy? A lovely creature.” 

Gilbert nodded. “Time has taken his toll now.” 

Image was searching bade many years. “Let me see, 
and wasn’t she supposed to be a Circe in real life ? Wasn’t 
there a story about her and a member of Parliament ?” 

“Oh! a hundred stories. One of the most talked-of 
women in London.” 

“A certain Royal personage was supposed ” 

“Yes, it’s always said so. . . . I should say she has had 
a high old time. Iverson never tried to control her. Of 
course, as I say, she’s a bit passee now. She knows it, 
too, and has taken up with occultism, mysticism, or what- 
ever you call it. ‘I must occupy myself,’ she said to me 
the other day. T have decided definitely to retire from 
the stage of Love while I am still desirable. My chil- 
dren bore me. I will seek the occult.’ ” 

“Not an ideal mother for a girl,” said Image. 

“Oh! Claudia is all right. Here’s her photo. She 
promised it to me if I won the Driver case. It only 


20 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


came this morning.” He took it out of a drawer and 
handed it to Image. In the corner was written in a firm 
individual hand, “Best congratulations, Claudia.” 

“Beautiful,” said Image warmly, who was ever an 
admirer of all things lovely, especially women. “I think 
I have met her somewhere. Not at all like I remember 
the portrait of Circe.” 

“Not a scrap like her mother. A good deal of what 
the French call beaute du diable about Mrs. Iverson. 
Claudia’s look are quite different.” 

Image began to recall various tit-bits of scandal and 
gossip that had found their way out to India regarding 
Claudia’s mother. Utterly unmoral, passionately heart- 
less, the fascinations of a siren, Image had heard many 
tales of her. He recalled vaguely one story, which was 
particularly scandalous and which questions the paternity 
of one of the daughters. There had been whisper at that 
time that) she had gone too far, and weak, complaisant 
Geoff Iverson would be roused to divorce her. 

“Miss Iverson is dark, I should say? Yes, I thought 
so.” Image looked at the girl in the portrait, who looked 
back at him. She had adopted no coquettish pose, no 
drooping eyelids or heavenward gaze, but she looked 
straight out of the frame with her clear, fine eyes. And 
they seemed to Image to be asking innumerable questions 
of life. There was a suggestion, too, of eagerness about 
the mobile lips, as though they would open and presently 
shape the word “why?” 

“Not a bit like her mother.” Gilbert seemed to take 
a comfort in repeating it. “And although there is all this 
talk about heredity nowadays, such a woman as Circe is 
something unusual. Of course, if I thought ” 

“My dear* boy, can you be in love with her and stop 
to think it over in this way?” Image was a little impa- 
tient with his godson. He liked the girl with the ques- 
tioning eyes. 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


21 


Gilbert looked up in slow surprise. “Well, mother 
doesn’t like Mrs. Iverson, as you may imagine. She calls 
her that ‘dreadful, immoral woman/ And you know 
what mothers are. She’s carefully picked out a girl for 
me. Plenty of money, and influential family relations. 
But the girl annoys me : she is one of the clinging, senti- 
mental sort. I don’t think I could stand her as my 
wife.” 

“Why — why are you marrying?” said Image slowly. 
Gilbert had evidently consulted his mother, or at least 
listened to her counsels. In some way Image was old- 
fashioned in his ideas of what is due to a parent, but he 
had never held it right that a mother should select a 
wife for her son. 

“Why?” Gilbert knocked the ashes out of his pipe. 
“Well, I think it is about time.” 

“I see.” Image looked again at the photograph. Gilbert 
was only marrying because “it was about time.” What 
were the eager dark eyes asking for? Only for that? 
“You don’t believe in having any sentiment about 
choosing one’s life partner?” 

“Oh, yes, of course. I’ve just told you the girl my 
mother has picked out would annoy me no end. I like 
Claudia very much. Only she is in a bad set, though it 
doesn’t seem to have affected her. As a matter of fact, 
her mother has hardly had any intercourse with her. She 
has none of the domestic virtues, you know. As far as 
one can see there is no taint there, but — well, its a serious 
responsibility to marry the daughter of a Circe. And 
people talk so much about heredity and eugenics ” 

“My dear boy,” said Image heatedly, “love snaps its 
fingers at heredity and pulls a long nose at eugenics. 
To the devil with them, I say. It’s too much talk about 
these things that makes people so anaemic these days. 
If you love a woman, take her in your arms and keep her 
there. A good woman won’t want to go far astray. But 




CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


keep her in your arms. Don’t put them round her once 
and hold her tight till she says ‘yes’ and then loosen hold. 
Most Englishmen deserve to lose their wives.” Image 
spoke with such warmth that Gilbert smiled. 

“A champion of woman!” He took the photo from 
Image. For the first time a tinge of warmth crept into 
his voice. It may have been caught from Image. “She 
is handsome, isn’t she?” 

“No, I do not stand up as a champion of women. I 
would not dare to do such a thing. But, thank God, I 
was brought up to love and respect women and to think 
that they needed protection and guarding. And men are 
all the better for the responsibility.” 

“Women nowadays resent guarding and protecting. 
They’ve changed while you’ve been away.” 

“Nonsense, I don’t believe it. They resent bullying 
and spying and the things that are done under the name 
of protection. They may pretend to like guarding and 
protecting themselves, but it’s because their men-folk are 
such incompetent slacksters. You modern lovers, what 
you miss in life! Don’t be a fool, Gilbert. You are in 
love with her, aren’t you ?” 

“Oh! yes, I have a feeling that way.” Gilbert gave 
a little laugh to cover his confession. For Image’s en- 
thusiasm was infective. And really Claudia was very 
charming. What; a good hostess she would make. And 
she was quick to see things ; her fine eyes had a wonder- 
ful way of lighting up — one of the gifts of the gods; 
she was interested in his career 

Image rose and clapped him on the shoulder. 

“Why don’t you put on your dancing-pumps and go 
off and dance with her to-night? I daresay she’ll cut 
out some unfortunate fellow for you.” 

Gilbert considered. “I must go down to my chambers 
early to-morrow, and I wanted to read over a brief to- 
night. Still, I might go for an hour. After all ” He 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


23 


broke off and put his pipe on the mantelpiece. After all, 
he had been celebrating a victory and his birthday. He 
had the feeling that he might allow himself a little treat. 
Claudia would be surprised and, he thought, pleased to 
see him. It was always easy to see her emotion mirrored 
in her eyes Yes, he would treat himself. 

Image said good-night and went down in the lift. He 
was thinking of Gilbert, a little puzzled, a little regretful, 
of what he hardly knew — and he flashed back a glance to 
his own youth. 

He stood still for a moment in the warm spring air 
and looked up at the stars. Then he took off his hat and 
for a moment stood bareheaded, as before a shrine. 

“Em very glad,” he said softly; but why he was glad 
no one but himself knew, unless it were the stars. 


CHAPTER III 


THE WORLD, THE FLESH 

HE dance was at its height when Gilbert entered 



A the ball-room. He thought of Jack Iverson’s pro- 
test as the strains of the waltz from the Count of Luxem- 
bourg began to float over the room, played as only a 
Viennese orchestra can play it. Yet the strains were 
alluring to that part of him that was not the successful 
barrister, and his feet itched like any ordinary young 
man’s to be dancing. Claudia, of course, would be 
booked up — she was, as her brother had left unsaid, 
a beautiful dancer — and no matter who went short of 
partners, Claudia did not. She had been out a year, and 
rumour said that she had had a good many offers of 
marriage. An aunt, who was anxious to see her settled, 
had said, with annoyance, that Claudia must be waiting 
for a prince, 

Gilbert caught sight of Jack Iverson dancing with a 
pretty debutante who was too plainly desirous of winning 
his approval. The only son, he was in the curious posi- 
tion of being wealthier than his own father, for an aunt, 
who had in the sixties married an immensely rich Jew, 
had recently died and left all her fortune to him. Why, 
heaven knows, unless she thought that the money would 
be put into quick circulation. This made young Iverson 
a very desirable parti in the matrimonial market, and 
mothers of budding and blooming daughters were ex- 
tremely polite to him. But Jack Iverson’s taste did not 
lie in the drawing-rooms of Mayfair. 

Gilbert waited about, but he could not see Claudia. 


24 


THE WORLD, THE FLESH 


25 


He turned away, more disappointed than he would have 
owned, and there, under a big palm, tapping her fan 
impatiently on her knee, he saw her — alone. 

“Claudia,” he said, going quickly up to her, “are you 
not dancing this?” He called all the Iverson family by 
their Christian names. He had known them in his early 
youth, when their country house had adjoined his 
father's. When Claudia was ten, their house had been 
sold — it was too far from town — and it was only during 
the last few months that he had really renewed his ac- 
quaintance with the family. Lady Currey had been un- 
feignedly glad when the Iversons moved away. 

Claudia jumped up, all animation. “You here! I 
thought you couldn’t afford the time for such frivolities.” 

“I can’t really, but I’ve come for an hour. I wondered 
if there was a chance of getting a dance with you.” The 
music was humming in his ears, there was a heady odour 
from a group of lilies beside them, and — and Claudia 
•was glad to see him. “I should not have come otherwise,” 
he added. He smiled at her, and though he used the smile 
very seldom, it was quite attractive. 

She met his eyes squarely without the least bit of 
a flutter, but a faint flush rose to her smooth cheecks. 
“Well, come,” she said, putting her hand within his arm. 
“I am engaged for this — but my partner has kept me 
waiting. So he can lose the dance. A laggard dancer, 
like a laggard lover, deserves to lose his partner.” 

“Blessings on his laggardism.” 

“If I had been an Early Victorian maiden, I should 
have waited patiently, like a brown paper parcel, till he 
came to claim me. . . . Ah, well ! You dance much better 
than he does. He dances like a pair of animated fire 
tongs.” 

Some people dance, and others move their feet. Claudia 
would have inspired an elephant to tread coquettishly. 
She had the real spirit of fhe dance in her, and a mag- 


26 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


netism that communicated itself to her partners, no 
matter how stodgy and how deep one foot was in the 
grave. An old colonel had once said — he was turned 
sixty, and out of pure good nature she had danced with 
him — that it was too dangerous to dance with Claudia 
Iverson. ‘‘I can’t afford to regret my youth so bitterly.” 
Circe had had a good deal of magnetism in her youth, 
but it had been purely animal. With Claudia it was a 
tantalizing blend of spirit and body. 

For some time they waltzed in silence. Then Gilbert 
said involuntarily, *Tm glad I came.” 

“I’m glad, too,” said Claudia softly. A little strand 
of soft dark hair that had become unloosened swept his 
cheek now and again, her body gave to every movement, 
lithe, supple and warm. He forgot his career and the 
brief he had meant to study. His youth asserted itself — 
he had never really enjoyed it — and insolently told his 
maturer intellect to hold off and take a back place. 

But Claudia, like most women, could think of many 
things while she was thoroughly enjoying the dance, for 
women can do several things at the same time. She was 
thinking of his triumph the day before. Many people 
had been talking about him the last few days, and prophe- 
sying big things for him. He was the young man of 
the hour, and he had left his work to come and dance 
with her. The thought was intoxicating. 

Claudia was desperately tired of the men who did noth- 
ing. Her father did nothing — he sat on one or two boards, 
and grumbled at having to attend their monthly meetings 
— her brother did very little. Although he was in the 
army, his duties sat lightly upon him, and those duties 
seemed to involve little or no brain power. Jack con- 
fessed that the only time he thought was the few minutes 
when he was sitting in his bath in the morning. The man 
with whom she should have danced the waltz did nothing. 
He was vaguely going in for politics one day, in the 


THE WORLD, THE FLESH 


27 


meantime he gracefully and idly existed. Most of the men 
Claudia knew, except one or two elderlies who were M.P.’s 
or the heads of large companies, did nothing in particu- 
lar. And Claudia had a great admiration for the people 
who did things. As a girl, she had read all the biogra- 
phies of famous men that she could lay her hands upon, 
and she had even once had a desire to do something big 
herself. Though she had long ago given up the idea, she 
still admired the vigorous men who did and thought 
strongly. 

The dance came to an end and Gilbert led her out of 
the room. 

“I was in court yesterday,’ ” said Claudia, tucking the 
little strand of hair tidily away under the fillet of pink 
coral and pearls which she wore. She was dressed in a 
pastel shade of something diaphanous and soft, that 
harmonized exactly with the creamy tones of her skin. 
The only colour about her was supplied by the corals 
which she also wore wound in strands round her neck 
and drooping over the front of her corsage. 

‘‘No, were you ?” said Gilbert, thrilling at this evidence 
of her interest. 

“I made Uncle John take me. ... I had to bribe him 
by promising to go and play backgammon with him two 
afternoons this week. But it was worth it. I — well, I 
should have howled if you hadn’t won the case, I was so 
excited. Uncle John went to sleep and snored, and he 
says I’ve pinched him black in my indignation. Isn’t it 
dreadful to be old and not be interested in anything for 
more than half an hour? He said it was the air of the 
courts.” 

“I did make a long speech though. Did you realize 
I was speaking for two hours? You were not there all 
that time?” 

“Yes, I was. Uncle John went to get something to 
eat, but I never budged.” 


28 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


“Claudia, how sweet of you.” He came a little nearer 
to her and his nostrils dilated a little. No man is un- 
moved by the subtle flattery of a beautiful woman, and 
Claudia was looking her best that night. 

“But,” said Claudia, with an abrupt change of voice, 
“I wish the man, the prisoner, had been more worth it. 
An awful poor thing, wasn’t he? Even if he didn’t 
murder the boy, he was only a wisp of straw, wasn’t he?” 

“If men and women were all fine strong characters, 
my services wouldn’t be required, would they?” 

Claudia looked thoughtful, and the brown eyes 
seemed to grow larger and brighter, as though some 
lamp were burning behind them. “No, I suppose you 
live on people’s weaknesses and lack of morals and 
stamina. Oh ! dear, I don’t like to think that.” 

“Well, don’t think it. Don’t let’s talk about my work. 
Tell me what you have been doing since I saw you last 
week?” 

She was leaning a little forward, her elbow on her 
knee, and he could see the rise and fall of her bosom, 
the soft curves outlined by the clinging chiffon. And 
though he sat outwardly unmoved, something tingled 
within him and strained like a dog in a leash. 

Claudia sat up with a shrug of her shoulders. It was a 
little trick of hers that suited her dark eyes. “I have 
been gloriously doing nothing in particular, the same 
things as I did last year, meeting much the same people 
and talking much the same talk. I spent two afternoons 
helping at the Duchess’s bazaar, and I smiled a contin- 
uous persuasive smile from ear to ear all the time, and 
I told a great many lies trying to sell things that were of 
an unutterable hideousness, and that nobody could want 
to buy. There was such a funny man came up to me. I 
tried to sell him a poker-work photo frame. Tsn’t it 
charming?’ I murmured. ‘Madam,’ he said, with a little 
twisty smile that began in his eyes and came down to his 


THE WORLD, THE FLESH 


29 


lips, ‘if you will frankly tell me what you think of it, I 
will purchase it. Your tone lacks conviction/ ‘Sir/ I 
replied, ‘frankly I think it one of the ugliest things I 
have ever seen and nothing would induce me to have it 
in my room/ ‘How much?’ said he. And he bought it. 
I should like to meet him again. I am sure we should be 
friends.” 

“I wonder what he did with it?” laughed Gilbert. 
“Perhaps he put his worst enemy into it.” 

“If I ever see him again I shall ask him.... Have 
you heard about Pat ? She has run away from Germany 
and come home. She says that speaking the Teutonic 
language all day was spoiling the shape of her mouth, 
and there was something in the air or the water that she 
was sure was making her figure spread! Isn’t she too 
quaint? She announces that she has learnt quite enough 
for the present, and she insists that mother shall bring 
her out.” 

“Why, she’s quite a child, surely!” 

“Oh, no ! Patsy is — let me see — nearly eighteen. 
Mother is so annoyed. You see I keep out of her way, 
but Pat is noisy about the house. She finds Pat absolutely 
antagonistic to — well to the spooks and the thought 
waves. She had hoped Pat would stay over in Germany 
for six months and acquire a philosophic language. Pat 
informed mother yesterday that she knew her type of 
good looks went off early, and she advised mother to 
get her safely off-hand before she began to fade.” 
Claudia laughed heartily at the remembrance. “She’s 
awfully pretty. You don’t remember her?” 

“I remember a small child with forget-me-not eyes and 
flaxen hair, who was always sitting down heavily on 
choice seedlings in the flower-beds and then crying be- 
cause she had ‘hurted them/ ” 

“Yes, that was Patsy. But she’ll get married quite 
easily. She’s really sweet. She’s got little tricks with 


30 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


her eyes, quite natural, not affected — and her eyebrows 
go up in a funny way that makes her look like an intelli- 
gent cock robin. By the way, have robins got eyebrows ? 
They seem eyebrows all over, don’t they ? Oh ! Pat will 
make a hit when she comes out.” 

Gilbert looked at her curiously. Did Claudia not think 
about getting married? He hazarded a question in a 
bantering, rather intimate way. 

“And when are you going off?” 

“It sounds like a firework, doesn’t it? I don’t mind 
telling you in a burst of confidence that Aunt Lucretia 
thinks the squib is a little damp. It hasn’t gone bang 
yet! But Pat will make a brilliant firework. Mind you 
don’t get burnt.” 

The music had struck up again, and Claudia took up 
her programme with a faint sigh. 

Gilbert put his hand over the little white-gloved one 
that held the card. “Who are you dancing with? Never 
mind who it is. Throw him over. Yes,” he said firmly, 
as she protested, “I know it isn’t your usual habit. But — 
well, isn’t it a special night somehow? It’s my birthday 
for one thing and ” 

“Oh, is it? Many happy returns. You got my photo- 
graph this morning?” 

“Yes, it’s on my mantelpiece now. . . . Never mind the 
wretched programme.” 

“But what shall I say?” she protested laughingly, for, 
womanlike, she loved a high-handed man who insists on 
getting his own way. 

“Say — say you prefer to dance with me Isn’t it 

true, Claudia? Say it is.” 

One hand was quite lost in his. His compelling eyes 
were on her face. Something for an instant caught her 
by the throat and made her shut her eyes as she said 
almost under her breath, “Yes, it’s true.” 

They made their way back to the ball-room. More 


THE WORLD, THE FLESH 


3i 


than one man stopped to congratulate Gilbert, and a 
good many women smiled up at him invitingly. 

As far as Claudia knew, Gilbert never flirted. She 
had never heard his name coupled even lightly with that 
of any woman. And he was thirty-two! It was almost 
unique in her set, where sexual philandering is one of 
the most amusing games for passing the time. She did 
not realize that it was precisely for lack of time that he 
had not paid much attention to women. The Law had 
been his only love. Claudia was a little tired and contemp- 
tuous of the hurrying, bee-like gentleman who sips from 
many flowers with no distinct preference for any bloom. 
Many such had buzzed around her, but she had kept fast 
closed the petals of her heart. But Gilbert Currey was 
different; yes, he was certainly different. 

A pale-faced, vapid youth, the heir to a famous duke- 
dom, was just inside the door. 

“Quick, that’s my real partner. He’ll grab me.” 

“He won’t,” said Gilbert firmly. He caught her to 
him a little fiercely, with all the primitive man in him 
awake. His mother’s warning about the bad stock from 
which Claudia sprang was forgotten. He had decided 
that Claudia was his. He, and he only, was going to 
grab her and carry her off to his wigwam. His 
wife would never want to be a Circe. Geoffrey Iverson 
had never been worth much as a husband. Like most 
men, Gilbert had his fair share of conceit. 

He guided her skilfully round the room, interposing 
himself and his arm between her and possible collisions, 
f©r the room was inconveniently crowded. She happily 
forgot the rest of the world and gave herself up to the 
sensuous music. But some of the gay spirit with which 
she had danced earlier in the evening had gone from her, 
a slight languor, more than a little pleasant, had stolen 
into her veins. The music seemed a lullaby to send her 
brain to sleep. She liked to feel the pressure of Gilbert’s 


32 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


arm and know that it enclosed her safely. She had 
danced with him before on one or two other occasions', 
but to-night his arm seemed to caress her. There was 
a curious charm in it and she abandoned herself to it. 
She had never before danced with anyone who had given 
her this sensation. 

And Gilbert felt the blood rushing through his veins 
as he would have thought impossible an hour ago. The 
knowledge of her liking, her nearness to him, seemed to 
make a little hammer pound away in his head, so that he 
had to set his teeth not to let himself get giddy. And 
Gilbert, when roused, had a good deal of the masculine 
animal in him, only he was so seldom roused. When he 
was a youth at Oxford his very clear and reasonable 
brain had warned him of a possible danger to his working 
powers in the delights of the flesh, and he had made him- 
self not think about them by grinding away at his books. 
His work and his intellect had become an almost invul- 
nerable armour. But to-night passion took him by the 
throat and he could think of nothing but the lissome 
pretty body in his arms. And his intellect, not quite 
drugged, approved of this diversion. His mother had 
said it was time to marry. Why not combine pleasure 
and duty? His reason quite approved of this proceeding. 

“Claudia,” he said breathlessly, coming to a standstill, 
“it’s confoundedly hot in here. Don’t you feel it. Shall 
we — shall we try for some fresh air?” 

She nodded, she did not want to speak. A beautiful 
dream had been roughly broken into. She had been 
happy in her unsubstantial dream; he — had not. 

Gilbert was lucky enough to find an untenanted cosy 
corner in a convenient angle that cut them off from the 
rest of the world. 

“Claudia, will you?” His arm was round the back 
of the couch ready to take her in his arms. 

“Will I — what?” faltered the girl. She knew what he 


THE WORLD, THE FLESH 


33 


would ask, but she had not imagined being proposed to 
thus. She had thought the man she could love would 
lead up gradually with protestations, with promises, with 
entreaties. Why did there seem no time for this ? Why 
did something hurry her into his arms, something irre- 
sistibly compelling, stronger than herself? 

“Will you marry me?” She tried to raise her eyes to 
his, and perhaps he caught a glimpse of what was in 
them for the next instant she felt his lips on hers, and 
the world rocked and then stood still. 

* * * * * * 

Afterwards, she wished that it had been more as her 
imagination had planned. Though every pulse in her 
body still throbbed with his kisses, she yet vaguely re- 
gretted that Prince Charming had not come in the guise 
she had imagined. But that it was the real Prince 
Charming — in somewhat of a hurry and a little inarticu- 
late — she did not doubt for a moment. 

“But nothing is just as one imagines it will be,” said 
Claudia to herself and the pillow that night. And having 
discovered that truth, Nature kindly pulled down the 
blinds and she went to sleep. 


CHAPTER IV 


A TOY MOTHER 

L ATER the same day Claudia awakened to the sound 
of snortings and snufflings. Exasperated puffings 
sounded in her ear. For an instant she dreamed that she 
was being pursued down a long road by an angry motor- 
car bent on her destruction. It came nearer and nearer — 
now it was quite close — she put out her hand in vague 
dreamlike fashion to push it away. The motor-car re- 
treated somewhere at her touch, but returned in a few 
seconds to make a fresh onslaught. Then something 
soft and velvety — obviously not a motor-car — rubbed up 
against her cheek. Claudia came back from the world 
of Nowhere in Particular to her own room in Grosvenor 
Square. 

To whom could those snortings and snufflings belong 
save Billie, her beloved dachshund! 

Claudia yawned lazily. Billie gave another tug to the 
brown plait on her pillow. That was always Billie’s way 
of engaging her attention in the morning. Extraordinary, 
how long these superior mortals took to awake in the 
morning when they were always so bright and fond of 
pulling his ears at night ! 

The outline of the map of the world was still blurred 
for his mistress when she vaguely remembered that 
something very pleasant had happened to her. What 
34 


A TOY MOTHER 


35 

was it that made her open her eyes that sense of 
bien etref 

“Oh ! . . . Oh ! Billie !” She turned on her elbow and 
kissed Billie’s silky brown coat with unusual fervour. 
He was the most delightful thing in dachshunds, with a 
coat like sealskin, only softer and warmer, and the most 
pathetic and companionable eyes in the world. He was 
exclusively devoted to Claudia, who, in return, gave him 
a big corner of her heart. To the rest of the family he 
was a little elusive and aloof, rather bored with their 
desultory attentions, occasionally very busy with his own 
thoughts and affairs. Only Claudia’s hand gave him 
real joy. Sometimes out of politeness he allowed Pat 
to think he liked her petting, but that was because she 
was only a young thing and Claudia was fond of her. 

“Billie,” she said, with a rippling laugh of sheer happi- 
ness, “you don’t know it, but I’m different from what I 
was yesterday morning. I’m engaged !” 

Billie regarded her seriously. He seemed to be digest- 
ing the news and wondering what difference it would 
make to him. 

“Yes,” continued his mistress, giving him a hug. “I’m 
engaged. I’ve promised to marry someone very, very 
nice. Congratulate me, Billie.” 

Billie rose to the situation and barked joyously. 

“Thank you, sir. I am sure they were most sincere 
congratulations. Heigh ho ! we shall have to tell mother. 
. . . What do you say to breakfast, eh ?” 

She put her hand on the bell, and Billie blinked happily. 
He always waited to take his breakfast with Claudia, 
and really she was very late during the season. 

“Billie, don’t rootle about in the bed like that. Be more 
respectful, because I’m much more important to-day than 
I was yesterday.” Then she lay back among the pillows 
and thought happily of Gilbert. She longed to see him 
or hear from him. She hoped he would telephone or 


36 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


perhaps send her some flowers on his way to his cham- 
bers. She was certain he must be thinking of her just 
as she was thinking of him. 

She had a curious and not unpleasant feeling that last 
night she had settled her whole life. She was like some- 
one who had been standing at the cross-roads awaiting an 
indication which turning to take. Last night she had 
taken what she was sure was the right turning. Now the 
road of her life seemed to stretch before her like a 
glorious golden riband. 

Yet, oddly enough, at the back of her mind was a 
sense of loss. She had lost the right of making her 
choice, she had lost a certain excited feeling that life was 
a great adventure. The adventure had taken definite 
shape now like a fluid that has been poured into a mould. 
Some of the delightful indecision, one of the biggest 
“perhapses” of life had gone. She had always taken it for 
granted that she would marry without making it her 
business to do so. She had looked with soft, speculative 
eyes at the men she met. Perhaps it will be this one — 
perhaps I shall sit next to him at dinner to-night — 
perhaps he will be one of my partners at the dance to- 
morrow ! A girl who knows that she is attractive to 
men always has this feeling consciously or unconsciously. 
Now this feeling had merged into something else, the 
happy glow of knowledge. Love had come. 

It seemed to Claudia that it had come rather suddenly, 
although she had known Gilbert for many years. It 
was only the last month he had seemed a “possible.” 
She remembered the exact moment that the label had 
fixed itself upon him. She had been at a big dinner- 
party, given by the wife of the Home Secretary, and the 
man who took her in had talked all through the fish 
and the entree about him. That was before the Driver 
case, when he had definitely proved his metal, but her 
dinner companion had been brought into contact with 


A TOY MOTHER 


37 


him over some business and been greatly impressed with 
his ability. Claudia had heard vaguely of Gilbert’s dis- 
tinguished career at Oxford, but the thumb-nail sketch 
which her companion drew of him in his chambers ar- 
rested her attention. Then later that very evening she 
had met him at a reception which her aunt, Lady Pitsea, 
gave. 

Claudia had an almost Greek appreciation and love for 
physical fitness, and had Gilbert not been a most person- 
able man, her interest in his mental achievements might 
have evaporated. But because he was strong and came 
of healthy stock, the night-oil that he had burned had 
so far left no mark upon him. There was no doubt that 
he had personality, that he would never be overlooked 
wherever he went. Claudia could never have married a 
handsome man without brains, but it is doubtful if she 
could have loved anything lacking in physical fitness. 
She demanded a certain amount of beauty and colour in 
her life, just as she demanded a certain amount of fresh 
air and food. 

Until the reception they had not met for a couple of 
years, and he showed unmistakably that he admired her. 
After that he seemed to dwarf the other men with whom 
she ate and danced and talked. That she did not meet 
him often at social gatherings — he was too busy to go — 
whetted her appetite for his company. Sometimes he 
would come in to some gathering with a little line of 
fatigue between his brows. It had been an agreeable 
pastime to smooth it out by her conversation and gaiety. 

She realized this morning, as she stirred her coffee, 
that actually they had talked very little. Not that he 
was a silent companion, but they had always talked in 
crowded places of other people and current events. 
Necessarily their talk had been largely on the surface— 
a large surface, but yet only the surface of the things 
that matter. She had never, since childhood’s days, been 


38 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


with him for many consecutive hours. She had never, 
since those days, been alone with him in the country, 
tramping side by side, or sitting for long, lazy hours 
under the green trees. Claudia knew that such times 
bare the man or woman of mannerisms and convention- 
alities, and expose the real ego. Two or three times 
before she had thought she liked men, but always on 
further and closer knowledge she had found them dis- 
appointing. Then she had been annoyed with herself for 
even that faint stirring of interest. In some unaccount- 
way she had felt humiliated when her brain failed to 
approve of them. But Gilbert could not disappoint her. 
How could such an admittedly clever man disappoint any 
woman? She was glad he was going to have a career, 
she saw herself helping him, entering into his thoughts 
and aims, working and loving side by side. She was 
glad she had not fallen) in love with a nonentity or an 
idle, rich man. 

She reflected that she would have hated to feel apolo- 
getic for her husband. And yet she had. seen girls of 
her own age, whom she knew to be clever and even brill- 
iant, marry men, and not for money or position, who 
seemed to be absolutely devoid of the grey matter we call 
brain. She had hearn them rave rapturously over com- 
monplace males that bored her in twenty minutes, and 
she knew that Love is a freakish thing. Fate might have 
played a joke on her. “I wonder what it is exactly — this 
sex attraction ?” she murmured to the sleeping dachs- 
hund, and pigeonholed the question for future investi- 
gation, when her mind was quite clear and at rest, for 
Gilbert had urged a speedy marriage. 

Gilbert’s love-making had been almost inarticulate. 
She wished he had said something memorable, something 
she could enshrine in her heart and when she was an 
old woman bring forth with a happy smile — “Do you 
remember you said ” But Gilbert had hardly even 


A TOY MOTHER 


39 


said the conventional Ich Hebe dich. Ah! but his heart, 
beating violently against her own, had said it. Claudia 
did not know that in the crucial moment love and passion 
are indistinguishable, so she had no doubt that his soul 
had spoken to hers. 

Billie raised his head from the eiderdown and looked 
questioningly at the door. Someone was approaching. 
A rap with something sharp and hard followed. 

“Can I come in, Claudia? Johnson said you were 
having your breakfast.” 

Claudia called out permission to enter, and a fair young 
Amazon, riding-crop in hand, stalked into the room. It 
was Patricia Iverson, generally called Pat, the youngest 
of the three children of Circe. Pat was unusually tall, 
and in her long riding-habit she looked even taller than 
usual. She was flushed with exertion, her fine, fair skin 
showed almost startlingly against the black of her hat 
and habit. 

“Bill, where are your manners? Why don't you wag 
your tail? All right, I shall wag it for you! What’s 
the good of being a dog with a usable tail, if you don’t 
wave it when a lady enters the room? Oh! it was 
spiffing in the Park this morning.” 

“I am sure it was. I feel ashamed to be in bed, but I 
was so late again this morning. Past four. Aren’t we 
fools to dance the night away and spend the mornings 
in bed?” 

“Yes,” said Patricia, disposing her long limbs in an 
easy chair. “But I shall do it when I get the chance.” 

“You ache to be dissipated?” 

“Rather, because after dissipation you can appreciate 
virtue and — a rest. Claudia, why are you smiling like a 
Cheshire cat this morning? I hate people to smile like 
that unless they tell me the reason. It’s like hearing 
the music of a dance you can’t go to.” 

Claudia wondered if she would break the news to Pat, 


40 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


It was strange, but there was nobody to whom she felt 
compelled to impart her news. There was no one would 
quite understand and be glad with her in her gladness. 
Pat was so young, and then you never knew how she 
would take things. Sometimes she was as hard as nails, 
and Claudia naturally felt she would like a sympathetic ear. 

“I’ve been riding with Mr. Paton,” continued Patricia, 
pulling Billie’s ear, a proceeding which he bore with the 
patience of an early Christian martyr. “We had such a 
jolly gallop. He’s awfully nice, isn’t he?” 

“Very nice,” agreed Claudia heartily. She felt that 
the whole world of men and women were nice this morn- 
ing, but she could honestly give Paton an emphatic ad- 
jective. “He’s a great friend of — of Gilbert Currey’s” 

“He says such quaint things sometimes, and he isn’t 
a bit like most men you meet. Do you know what we 
were talking about this morning? We were discussing 
animals, and how far they feel human emotion, and how 
much brain they’ve got. He’d been reading some Ger- 
man book on the subject. He’s fond of animals. Oh! 
he sent you a message.” 

“Yes?” Claudia was wondering what the bond of 
sympathy was between the two men. 

“He told me to tell you that he’s ordered that book 
you wanted from the publisher. And I am to convey 
an invitation for us both to have tea with him to-day in 
Kensington Gardens. We don’t need Jujubes.” 

Jujubes was a disrespectful name applied to Miss 
Morrow who had once been with them as governess, and 
had slid into position of amiable General Utility. She 
could be used as a chaperon, walking-stick, or sedative. 
Hence Pat’s nickname for her. 

“I promised to go to some theatricals at Stretton 
House,” said Claudia, grabbing her diary, “and, let me 
see — yes, I ought to go with Aunt Carrie to call on some 
people.” 


A TOY MOTHER 


4i 


But her words were regretful. She would have loved 
to sit in the Park and have tea under the trees, where 
the birds come hopping round your chairs for crumbs, 
and everything around is green and fragrant. It would 
have accorded so much better with her mood than paying 
formal calls on people to whom she couldn’t tell the 
great and important thing that had happened to her. 

“Don’t be a pig, Claudia. I’m not allowed to do much, 
and you might say yes. Mr. Paton won’t want me with- 
out you.” 

“Oh, yes, he would. Take Jujubes.” 

“Pooh! he looks upon me as a flapper. Wait till 
mother gives me some proper dresses and I begin to fill 
out. I look like the Bones of the Holy Innocents now, 
but you wait till I get some curves. They are beginning 
to come.” 

She nodded her head knowingly, as she looked down 
at herself. 

Claudia suddenly decided she would throw over Aunt 
Carrie. This was a special day in her life, and she felt 
she ought to do just what she wanted most. If only 
Gilbert could tea with them! She thought of telephon- 
ing, and then some instinct warned her that Gilbert would 
think it trivial. Gilbert not being available, Claudia 
found the idea of a quiet sunny afternoon with Colin 
Paton quite pleasing. One never had to be politely talk- 
ative and interested in him. One talked or one didn’t 
talk, just as one pleased. Sometimes one found oneself 
talking particularly well, helped by the right word or the 
appreciative smile. Claudia thought of him in a sort of 
revolving roundabout with Gilbert, as she took her bath, 
and tried to find the right word to express him. The 
best she could get was “companionable,” although she 
felt that was a little tepid. 

When she was dressed she sent a message to her 
mother. She must tell her the news. Sometimes Claudia 


42 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


did not see her for days together, and they were in no 
sense mother and daughter, but Claudia felt it was the 
proper thing to inform her at once. It had always 
seemed tq her friends that Mrs. Iverson was a mother 
merely for the three weeks she had to remain an invalid. 
After that she shook off her maternity. 

The maid came back with the answer that Mrs. Iverson 
was having her face massaged, but that Claudia could 
come to her. 

Her mother’s bedroom and dressing-room suggested 
a hothouse with a quantity of mirrors. Circe had always 
been something of an exotic, and lately she had grown 
more so, or what Pat called “stuffier.” There was an 
insidious Eastern perfume that always trailed after Sybil 
Iverson, and the room Claudia entered was heavy with 
it. The hangings and huge divan were Oriental in colour- 
ing and material. The sun was excluded from the room 
by pink curtains closely shrouding the windows, and 
electric lamps with becoming shades were burning. Her 
mother was in the dressing-room, prostrate under the 
hands of the masseur, who had a great reputation among 
women, especially those who were on the borderland of 
youth and middle age. He was ridiculously expensive, 
but his hands were magical. 

Mrs Iverson lazily opened her closed eyelids and re- 
garded Claudia. Her eyes were still very beautiful. 
“You wanted to see me dear ?” 

Claudia hesitated. “Yes, but ” If it had been 

Pat she would have said cryptically “P and P” — private 
and particular. 

“Well, Jules has nearly finished.” Mrs. Iverson was 
still beautiful, but with a great effort. In her youth 
when the famous portrait had been painted, she had been 
almost as fair as Patricia, but now her hair was tinted 
auburn and her complexion was enamelled to match. 
Her eyes — still marvellous — were of a deep shade of 


A TOY MOTHER 


43 


blue, like a violet under the rays of the midday sun. Her 
mouth was much fuller than Patricia’s; and told its own 
tale. Mrs. Iverson had always been unutterably bored 
with her children, but she seemed to like or rather dislike 
Claudia the least. Patricia annoyed her, because she 
was reminded of her own lost freshness, and Jack she 
found stupid. She really rather liked to talk to Claudia 
for a quarter of an hour or so. Claudia was neither 
gauche nor ignorant. And her brown eyes, with their 
purposeful gaze — well, some memories are pleasanter 
than others, even to a Circe. 

Claudia picked up the Occult Review, and tried to be 
interested in it till her mother should be free. 

At length Jules departed. Mrs. Iverson inspected the 
result in the hand-mirror. 

“He’s a marvel. I hope he’ll still be alive when you 
want him .... I like the cut of your skirt, Claudia. Who 
made it? Ah! I thought so. She can cut skirts. Don’t 
you find her ruinous?” 

It was a polite interrogation, as though to a stranger. 

“Yes, I thought her more of a robber than usual,” 
continued her mother. “I’m glad you haven’t got such 
long legs as Patricia. When she comes toward me with 
her arm waving she reminds me of a sign-post on a 
country road. It’s a pity. Men don’t like too long 
women. You and I are just the right height. I think 
this modern girl by the yard is a mistake. None of the 
famous women such as Jeanne du Barry and Ninon de 
Lenclos were very tall. Patricia will make most men 
look ridiculous.” 

“Perhaps Pat doesn’t want to be a Ninon de Lenclos,” 
suggested Claudia, with a twinkle. 

“Nonsense, every woman wants to be a Ninon de 
Lenclos, if she could have the chance. Don’t be taken 
in by this talk of T wouldn’t.’ It’s a case of T couldn’t/ 
Most women have to be virtuous, because they can’t be 


44 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


anything else, and they make the best of it. What’s that 
American saying, ‘Virtue must be its own reward — any 
other would be a tip.’ Do you know what Ninon said 
herself, ‘Love is a passion, not a virtue: and a passion 
does not turn into a virtue because it happens to last — 
it merely becomes a longer passion.’.... But what did 
you want to see me about?” 

It should have been a propitious opening, this discus- 
sion of love, but somehow it was not. 

“I think — I think I ought to tell you something.” 

“Don’t unless you want to,” said her mother quickly. 
“I don’t think you ought to tell me anything. If you 
think it will interest me — tell me, but don’t use me as 
a mother, please.” 

“Would it interest you to know that I am engaged?” 
It was out. Claudia breathed more freely. Then she 
blushed as her mother looked at her with unusual at- 
tention. 

“Yes, that quite interests me. I have wondered once of 
twice what sort of a man you would choose. Who is it?” 

“Gilbert Currey, mother.” 

“Gilbert C yes, the M.P.’s son. Does something, 

doesn’t he? A barrister? I remember his mother 
Marian Darby. She never liked me, and I returned the 
compliment; but we were once great friends. What 
made you choose her son?” 

“Mother ! I — I fell in love with him. Why do people 
marry?” 

Circe smiled at her young daughter, who met her eyes 
quite squarely but was obviously uncomfortable. 

“For hundreds of reasons, my dear. You’ll find out 
some of them later on. Of course, one must marry” — 
she retouched an eyebrow with a little brush — “just as 
one must have a birth certificate and a license for the 
motor.... I don’t think I’ve noticed him since he was 
a boy. I remember him at Wynnstay. I used to see 


A TOY MOTHER 


45 


him in a canoe on the river, deep in his books. Is he 
still strenuous and booky?” 

“People say he is going to have a big career.” It was 
difficult to talk to her mother. 

“Really? And you want to be part of that career? 
Well, I daresay it is all right. Better tell your father. 
I should think you might have done better from a world- 
ly point of view, though the Curreys are rich, and Gilbert 

will succeed to the baronetcy You’ve really made 

up your mind? Your aunt was telling me the other day 
that you are considered one of the most attractive girls 
in Society to-day. She mentioned a Russian prince of 
great renown— I forget his name ” 

“He is fifty and has been married twice already.” 

“Men grow more appreciative, not less so, as they 
get older. And Russians are sometimes fascinating. I 
remember one — Russians can be very wild and romantic.” 

“I don’t want a wild and romantic husband.” Claudia 
laughed outright. 

“No? — perhaps you are right. There is plenty of 
time, and I daresay a Russian would not make a com- 
fortable husband. Well, child, I am glad if you are 
glad. I must meet my future son-in-law.” She made 
a little grimace. “It adds at least five years to my age, 
but I suppose I can’t ask you to consider me. I think 
he had better come to dinner one night. Look in my 
engagement book and find a night. Thursday — yes, that 
will do. Write down your name and Gilbert’s, and then 
I shall remember all about it. One or two of the family 
might be asked.” She gave her daughter a smile of 
dismissal. It was very sweet, if a trifle automatic, and 
it showed to advantage her perfect and natural teeth. 
Mrs. Iverson never kissed her children, but then she 
thought kissing between women ridiculous. The only 
thing she ever kissed of the female sex was a little toy 
terrier. 


46 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


When Claudia went downstairs, relieved that the news 
had been broken, she found the book had arrived that 
Colin Paton had promised to obtain for her. She cut 
the string and dipped into it. It was a volume of essays 
that he had mentioned to her and that she had expressed 
a desire to read. Colin Paton never forgot things. 

She looked from the book to the telephone and wished 
that Gilbert had found time to ring her up and just say, 
“Hallo ! Here am I and there are you !” It would have 
seemed to make last night more real, more sure. Like a 
puff of wind it crossed her mind that the sender of the 
book would have somehow got in touch with the woman 
he had asked to be his wife the night before. Pat liked 
him. Perhaps he would marry Pat, she thought idly. 

She was too keenly, too tinglingly alive for delicate 
essays that morning. Later on she would enjoy them. 
She put them down and picked up an illustrated paper. 

The first thing that met her gaze was a portrait of 
Gilbert and a paragraph recording his right to such a 
distinction. 

There was no one in the library, and she raised it im- 
pulsively to her lips. It was not a satisfactory kiss, for 
the paper smelt of something nasty and oily. Still the 
portrait seemed to bring Gilbert into the room with her. 
And this man was hers, this man at whom all the Bar 
was looking, was hers, hers, hers ! 

Because she was only twenty-one, thoroughly healthy 
and full of life, she danced round the room holding the 
paper to her breast. Her eyes were alight with happi- 
ness her soft lips were curved with the joy of love and 
life. 

Then having danced her little Te Deum to the music 
of her heart, she waltzed out of the door with a cheery 
shout for Billie. She would take him for a walk and 
give him joy, too. 


CHAPTER V 


GREEN BAY-LEAVES 


L ADY CURREY was not at all pleased with her son’s 
engagement, and she said so. She came to town 
for this purpose, and made Gilbert give her lunch while 
she strongly disapproved, from the hors d’czuvres to the 
coffee. She had the soulless good looks which Time, as 
if contemptuous, neglects to touch. And because she 
could afford to do so, she purposely dressed in a middle- 
aged, sober fashion which she considered dignified. She 
had a great sense of her own importance, and the modern 
grandmother of fifty in ninon and picture-hats was to 
her extreme anathema. She and Circe were much the 
same age. Sybil Daunton-Pole had flashed into society 
like a brilliant comet, a trail of admirers behind her, 
when Gilbert’s mother, the amiable daughter of the then 
Home Secretary, had been one of the small and unre- 
marked stars that dot the social firmament. 

Lady Currey had brought her husband a considerable 
sum of money, but the only thing for which she needed 
money was to gratify her craze for old china. If she 
had any heart or soul it was given to her specimens of 
priceless Ming and old Chelsea. She spent hours every 
day dusting her cabinets. Her only idea of travel was 
the opportunity it gave her for visiting museums and 
picking up bargains in rare porcelain. 

For Gilbert she had a pleasant feeling of proprietor- 


47 


48 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


ship — much the same as she felt for the wonderful 
famille rose - jar of the Kien-Lung period which she had 
herself unearthed in a visit to the East. Gilbert was an 
only child, and he had been little or no trouble. This 
was the first time he had disappointed her. When other 
mothers complained of their sons, of escapades at Eton 
and Oxford, or premature and undesirable love affairs, 
of monumental debts and lack of family pride, Lady 
Currey’s lips always took on an added shade of compla- 
cency as she thought of Gilbert and the even and admir- 
able tenour of his way. It was entirely becoming that 
Gilbert should be so satisfactory and in some way re- 
flected well on herself, just as did the discovery of the 
famille rose- jar. Lady Currey liked everything around 
her to be comme il faut, not the elastic* comme il faut 
of fashion, but rather the correctness of the copybook 
and the ten commandments. Curiously enough, en- 
grossed in herself and her china, she had never until 
quite recently speculated, as do most mothers, on her 
son s probable choice of a wife. When she had thought 
of it, she had dismissed the idea with the assurance that 
Gilbert would choose wisely and soberly and to his ad- 
vantage. It was not in her to feel any jealousy of the 
woman Gilbert should love. 

“I am grieved,” she said, sitting very upright — she 
rarely used the back of a chair — “I am grieved to think 
that you intend to marry into the Iverson family. The 
Iverson are not a family of which I — or any right- 
thinking people — approve.” 

“But, mother,” said Gilbert, rather taken aback, for 
he had become used to her invariable approval, “I am 
not marrying the family. I am marrying Claudia.” 

“Ah! that’s what you think — the usual reply. For 
Geoffrey Iverson I have no particular dislike — he has 
been the cat’s-paw of a clever and unscrupulous woman. 
His family is a very good one. She would have spoilt 


GREEN BAY LEAVES 


49 


any man who had the misfortune to be married to her. 
Why, Sybil Iverson is notorious !” 

“Claudia is quite unlike her in every way. Why, she 
is not even like her in appearance.” 

Lady Currey lifted her thin, fair eyebrows. It was 
unbecoming that she should tell him the scandalous 
rumours that floated about respecting Claudia’s parent- 
age : Such things could only be told by a father to a son. 
She vehemently disapproved of any plain speaking 
between the sexes. Such a crime could never be laid to 
her charge; not even in the marital chamber had she 
ever discussed any such thing. 

“She is the daughter of her mother, Gilbert, and the 
mother — I say it deliberately — is a bad woman, a woman 
who has trailed the glory and purity of the flower of 
womanhood in the dust.” Lady Currey occasionally in- 
dulged in such flights of rhetoric. She had rehearsed 
this in the train. 

“I don’t think the two women see much of one an- 
other.” Gilbert was a little nettled. “Claudia told me 
herself that she hardly knew her mother at all in her 
young days. She was left entirely to her gorvernesses. 
She can hardly have imbibed any — any idea from her 
mother.” 

The pathos of such an admission did not strike Lady 
Currey, it only helped to justify her present attitude. 

“It is, of course, very painful for me to have to men- 
tion such matters to you, but why has she seen so little 
of her mother? Because Sybil was — I blush to say it — 
so surrounded by lovers that she neglected her maternal 
duties. I say again, she is notorious for her lax life 
and morals. Don’t you believe in heredity, Gilbert? 
Think of the blood that runs in that girl’s veins.” 

Gilbert frowned. “Heredity is a curious thing. Not 
worth worrying over, I think. I don’t profess to under- 
stand it.” 


50 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


“I have studied the question/’ She had read one 
book that was quite out of date. “I firmly believe in 
heredity. The vices or the virtues of the father and 
mother are surely transmitted to the children.” It was 
pleasing to think that only virtues could be transmitted 
to Gilbert, but it was all the more annoying that those 
inherited virtues should be linked with the vices of Sybil 
Iverson’s child. 

Gilbert was becoming annoyed, and made no reply. 
After all, his mother was only a woman, and women 
never could argue. It jarred on his manhood that she 
should take him to task, and his voice was a little cold 
as he inquired what she would take to drink. 

“You know I always take one glass of claret.” The 
tone somehow implied that a woman like Sybil Iverson 
might reprehensibly vary her drink with lunch, but she 
had regular habits. Then she returned to the attack. 

“Claudia is not the woman that we — your dear father 
and I — would have chosen for you.” 

“Doesn’t every mother say that about her son’s 
choice ?” 

His mother sighed and waited while Gilbert ordered 
the wine. “What sort of bringing-up has she had? What 
sort of a wife and mother will such a girl make? Her 
mother’s only god was pleasure, her only commandment 
‘Enjoy the fleeting hour.’ Do you mean to tell me that 
the daughter of such a woman has proper ideas about 
life? Would you care to be the complaisant husband of 
a Circe?” 

But here Gilbert put his foot down. His mother 
must be made to see that he knew quite well what he 
was about, that he had not run haphazard into this en- 
gagement. Not on any account would he let her see 
that curious mixture of surprise and annoyance at the 
back of his mind when he thought of the proposal scene. 
He had an undefined feeling that he had been hurried 


GREEN BAY-LEAVES 


5i 


into it, though how he had been hurried, by whom or 
by what, he did not seek to explain even to himself. To 
Gilbert's cast of mind vague feelings were best ignored 
as symptoms of a weak and illogical brain, much the 
same as vague symptoms may denote an illness of the 
body. Still the feeling was there, behind many stacks 
of docketed and pigeonholed pieces of information. Yet 
he had almost made up his mind to propose to Claudia 
— oh ! yes — only — that particular night ? 

“Mother, I cannot hear you say such ridiculous things 
about Claudia. You do not know her. You might as 
well say that the children of murderers will all grow up 
murderers." 

“You might commit murder in a sudden fit of passion, 
but such a warped, degraded nature as Sybil Iverson’s 
is another story. Besides — the sons of a murderer have 
probably seen him hanged or punished — the law steps in ; 
but who punishes a woman like Sybil Iverson ? Society, 
nowadays, is too lax to such creatures, and virtuous 
women have to mix with them and take them by the 
hand, or else be dubbed ridiculous or old-fashioned. Well," 
with a sudden little gust of passion like a disturbance in a 
tea-cup, “thank God, I am old-fashioned and absurd. I 
can say my prayers every night and lie down in peace. . . . 
No, Gilbert, you know I only take one glass of claret." 

“They say Mrs. Iverson has given up her wicked, 
siren-like ways and gone in for spiritualism." He wished 
his mother realized that she was keeping him from his 
work and would hurry up with her lunch. The leisurely 
ways of the country were not those of town. But Lady 
Currey was doing her duty. 

“Such women never give up their wicked ways, they 
take them to the grave with them." Both Gilbert and 
his mother had very little sense of humour, with the dis- 
tinction that Gilbert knew when things were ridiculous. 
“I know Sybil’s mother died of a broken heart." This 


5 * 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


was quite untrue, she had died of fatty degeneration of 
the liver. “But there, the Psalms say that the wicked 
flourish like green bay-trees, and if they did in King 
David’s time there is no doubt they do now. But their 
punishment awaits them, Gilbert ; always remember 
that.” 

Gilbert nodded absently. Life after death was one 
of the vague things, like psychology, that he did not 
consider as practical politics. But he did not tell his 
mother this. If she liked to imagine him striving for a 
golden harp with humility of soul, she might. 

“I confess I am disappointed in you, Gilbert. I had 
looked forward to your choosing some nice girl I could 
take to my heart, someone like Maud Curtice, for ex- 
ample.” 

Maud Curtice was a colourless girl who agreed with 
Lady Currey in being shocked at the modern scanty 
fashion of dressing — she was painfully thin and had 
ungainly hands and feet — and who devoted herself to the 
mothers of eligible sons. She also had a large income. 

“Wait till you know Claudia, mother. You are sure 
to like her.” 

“I have heard she is very handsome and a great 
favourite in Society,” returned his mother gloomily. “It 
is a bad report to my way of thinking. That’s how 
her mother started.” 

Just then, to his great relief, Gilbert caught sight of 
Colin Paton wending his way out of the restaurant. He 
hailed him with joy, and Paton came to a standstill be- 
side their table. 

Lady Currey approved of Colin Paton. His manners 
were respectful and he showed an intelligent interest in 
china. She never noticed the quizzical gravity with 
which he received' her views on life, nor the humorous 
twinkle in his eyes at her criticisms. She thought him 
“a very nice young man.” 


GREEN BAY-LEAVES 


53 


“Colin, old man, come and have some coffee with us.” 

“Just had some. I hope you are quite well, Lady 
Currey ?” 

Gilbert made a business of looking at his watch and 
starting with alarm. “By jove, I didn’t know it was so 
late. I must just swallow my coffee and run. May I 
leave the mater with you to finish her coffee at her 
leisure ?” 

Colin caught the appeal in Gilbert’s eyes and guessed 
the cause. 

“Certainly, if Lady Currey will accept me as a poor 
substitute for you.” 

Lady Currey smiled a gracious assent. “I hope your 
dear mother is better, Mr. Paton?” 

“Yes, thank you. . . . Busy as usual, Gilbert? I hear 
the proverbial busy bee is quite out of it.” 

“Well, I am tearingly busy. Don’t get a minute to 
myself.” 

Paton slipped into his chair. “And yet you’ve found 
time to get engaged, I hear? I wrote my congratulation 
this morning.” 

“Thanks, old chap. Oh ! getting engaged doesn’t take 
very long.” Gilbert laughed pleasantly and displayed 
his firm white teeth. 

“Doesn’t it?” returned Paton, smiling. “I think it 
would take me no end of a time. But there, we shall 
soon be born in the morning, married at midday, and 
buried in the evening!” He saw Lady Currey looking 
at him rather doubtfully. “A man like your son, Lady 
Currey, takes a woman and the world by storm. Veni, 
vidi, vici is not for me. Women have to know me quite 
a long time before they remember me.” 

“I am sure you have a great many friends,” she said 
encouragingly. 

“Yes, that’s why I expect I shall never get a wife 

Really must go, Gilbert? I had tea with Claudia and 


54 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


the long-legged Patricia yesterday. We wished you 
could have been with us.” 

“Teas are not in my line. I suppose I shall see you 
again soon?” 

“Well, I’m going away, you know.” 

Gilbert turned back in surprise. 

“What, at the beginning of the season!” exclaimed 
Lady Currey. 

“Going out to the Argentine for a while. A friend 
of mine is going out on a political mission and wants an 
assistant. I’ve decided to accompany him. Never been 
there, and it must be an interesting country.” 

Gilbert raised his eyebrows. Why on earth didn’t 
Paton stop in one place and make a name for himself? 
He had often advised him to do so. 

“Sudden isn’t it? I thought you said the other night 
that you were remaining in town until the end of July.” 

Paton nodded. “I’ve changed my mind. I think I 
want a change. I shall only be away six months or so, 
perhaps a year.” 

Gilbert’s thoughts had raced ahead. “Then if we’re 
married at the end of July, as is probable, you’ll be 
away? That’s too bad. I had relied on you for being 
best man.” 

“You’ll be married so soon? No, I am afraid I can’t 
assist to give you away.” 

Gilbert again expressed his regrets, which were quite 
genuine, and left his mother with Paton. Colin did not 
make the mistake of rushing in where angels fear to 
tread, but waited for Lady Currey’s comments. 

“What do you think of this engagement, Mr. Paton? 
I know I can speak to you quite frankly. I think it is a 
great mistake. Weren’t you surprised?” 

“Yes,” returned Paton truthfully, “I was very sur- 
prised. Gilbert did not confide his hopes in me. I didn’t 
see any wooing going on, and he never talked about her 


GREEN BAY-LEAVES 


55 


to me. He must have made the running quickly/' Then 
he added, half to himself, “He can’t have seen a great 
deal of her.” 

“Of course not, or he wouldn’t have done it. Gilbert, 
for once in his life, has lost his head over a pretty 
woman. Why, you are much more of a friend than 
Gilbert.” 

A slight shadow crossed her companion’s face and he 
dropped his eyelids. “Well, I thought I was. But then 
friend — oh ! it’s the veni, vidi, vici trick. She’s a charm- 
ing girl, Lady Currey, with all sorts of possibilities.” 

Lady Currey pursed up her thin lips that had never 
bestowed or received a kiss of passion. “She is hand- 
some, certainly. But is she the wife for Gilbert? I 
have lived long enough to know that looks are a poor 
foundation for matrimony.” 

“She has quite a good deal of character,” said her 
companion quietly, without any annoying enthusiasm. 
“I am sure she will develop into a splendid woman with 
the man she loves. She isn’t the usual pretty society 
doll,, you know.” 

“Does it strike you that Gilbert wants a woman of 
character?” asked his mother with unexpected acuteness. 
“Clever men are usually better mated to stupid wives. 
Look at Carlyle and Jane Welsh! Much too clever for 
one another.” Then irrelevantly, “There are too many 
clever girls nowadays. I don’t believe they make any 
the better wives and mothers for being so clever. I am 
sure I never wanted such a daughter-in-law.” 

Paton found himself at a loss for conversation. He knew 
he could do Claudia no good by praising her warmly 
to her future mother-in-law, he might even make 
matters worse. Yet to hear Claudia belittled made some- 
thing leap within him into fierce flame. It seemed dis- 
loyal to listen to Lady Currey’s sneers. Yet he knew 
that Claudia must storm the citadel of Lady Currey’s 


56 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


heart herself. As an advance agent his labours would 
be wasted. But Paton, looking across the table into the 
light, offended eyes of the woman, was sorry for the 
girl. It was rather odd. His mother, a confirmed in- 
valid, and Lady Currey had been close friends in their 
youth. Yet his mother had warmly liked Claudia when 
she had once met her for a few minutes. He was 
startled to find that his current of thought had communi- 
cated itself to Lady Currey. 

“Your mother always did like pretty things — I know 
she admires Claudia — but she was always unduly swayed 
by good looks, even at school. I know how deceptive 
they are. A man told me the other day that his wife 
had left him and been through the Divorce Court, and 
he attributed it entirely to her good looks. ‘A very pretty 
woman is difficult to live with/ he said ; ‘she gets a great 
deal of adulation and flattery in Society, and naturally 
the husband at home falls rather flat/ There is a lot of 
truth in that, Mr. Paton/ , 

“Perhaps he was the typical English husband who, as 
soon as he has won a wife, forgets to be her lover,” re- 
plied Paton. “You are very careful and precious of 
your rare china, Lady Currey.” 

His vis-a-vis stared. She wondered that Paton, who 
was usually so smooth in conversation, should make such 
a sudden jump. But it served to divert her mind from 
Claudia. 

“I had such luck last week. I was walking along the 
High Street in Moulton and I caught sight of a pair of 
vases. I thought that powder blue could be nothing less 
than Chinese. They had blue and white reserves on 
them. You know what that means. I got them for a 
mere song, and they’re beauties. Since I last saw you 
I have bought . . . . ” 

Still talking china, Paton saw her into a taxi. 

He strolled away from the restaurant. It was warm 


GREEN BAY-LEAVES 


57 


and sunny, and the pedestrians seemed all in a good 
humour. Paton often wandered for hours through the 
streets of London, finding in that wonderful panorama 
food for eyes and brain and heart. He loved the feeling 
that he was part of the crowd, and his mind was stored 
with many observations and memories. The romance of 
the streets was no idle journalistic phrase to him. He 
felt it around him on all sides, plucking at him with al- 
luring fingers leading him into the land of dreams. Often 
at night he would give himself wholly up to its enchant- 
ment, wandering along mile after mile through quaint 
byways and on misty commons, through silent Suburbia 
and the noisy, restless East-end slums. London was to 
him a book of unending pages with countless illustrations. 

This afternoon he mingled with the crowd, but he did 
not heed it, so that he did not see a woman in a motor 
energetically waving her hand to him and directing the 
chauffeur to stop. 

“Mr. Paton — oh! Mr. Paton, what a day-dream !” 

It was Claudia herself, looking altogether charming 
in light summer attire. There were waving, greeny-blue 
ostrich feathers in her Leghorn hat and around her neck. 
The softness of the feathers and the peculiar shade of 
blue accentuated the creamy tint of her skin and the 
brightness of her eyes. Her happiness shone through 
the envelope of the flesh like a flame through clear glass. 
A heavy-eyed woman of the lower classes who was pass- 
ing marked her and muttered, “She has a good time, 
I’ll be bound,” then, wrapped in her own bad one, 
passed on. 

Paton went up to the car and held out his hand. 

“Mr. Paton, you’re just the man I want. Do come 
and see some pictures with me. Jujubes hates pictures, 
don’t you, Jujubes?” She turned to the faded, amiable 
woman beside her in the car. 

“I don’t hate them, but they all look so alike,” said 


58 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


Jujubes mildly. “When you’ve seen one, it seems to me 
you’ve seen the lot.” 

“There, listen to this awful heathen who rejoices in 
her darkness! Leave me not to her tender mercies. 
Jujubes can do some shopping for me.” She looked en- 
treatingly at him with her fresh young mouth smiling 
at herself, Jujubes, Paton and the whole world. 

He hesitated for the fraction of a second. Then he 
said cheerily : “Of course I’ll come, if only out of kind- 
ness to Miss Jujubes. And I shan’t be seeing any more 
English, pictures for a long time, I suppose.” Then he 
told her of his intended visit to the Argentine. 

“Oh !” said Claudia blankly. “Oh ! I wish you weren’t 
going away. I shall miss you so much — we shall all 
miss you.” She said it quite naturally as the thought 
came to her mind. One could always do that with Colin 
Paton. 

“Thank you,” he said smilingly, as he helped Jujubes 
to alight. “It’s very good of you to say so.” He seated 
himself beside Claudia. 

“Don’t. You needn’t be formal and polite. Why are 
you going? Is it the wanderlust again? Or is it to help 
you in your career ?” 

Gilbert had taught her to think of careers. 

“Oh! I shall never have a career,” said Paton lightly, 
aware of the soft, dark eyes on his face questioning him.. 
But he did not meet them. Somehow they held a look 
in them to-day that he could not bear. “I don’t con- 
centrate, you know. I’m just ‘a blooming amateur.’ 
Gilbert was reading me a solemn lecture the other day, 
but — I go on the same old way. I’m glad, however, 
that Gilbert is getting on so well. But then, he does 
concentrate.” 

“He works very hard,” said Claudia thoughtfully, “I 
had no idea how hard. He does too much, I think.” 
Then she looked at the rather fine lines of the face be- 


GREEN BAY-LEAVES 


59 


side her. “But I don’t believe you are afraid of hard 
work. I remember how hard you worked when you were 
on that Hospital Committee.” 

“No, I don’t think it’s that,” said Paton quietly. 4‘Let’s 
say it’s lack of ambition and driving power.” 

Was there something in his tone that sent a vague 
shadow of distrust over Claudia’s expression, or was it 
the echo of some secret misgiving in herself? 

“Does that mean you think ambition — the ordinary 
get-to-the-top-of-the-tree ambition — rather common- 
place ?” 

“Not a bit,” he said heartily. “After all, we live on 
a commonplace earth. Gilbert is right and I am wrong, 
and when Gilbert is Lord Chief Justice and I’m an ob- 
scure old bore of a bachelor, I shall, no doubt, fully real- 
ize my wrongness. But do ask me to dinner some- 
times.” 

“But you musn’t remain a bachelor,” said Claudia, 
with all the enthusiasm of the newly-engaged woman, 
“because your life will be incomplete. That sounds like 
sex conceit, but you said it yourself to' me, and then I 

began to believe it. And now ” she completed the 

sentence with a charming blush. 

“Can you imagine any modern woman wanting a man 
without worldly ambition, a man she will never be proud 
of, a man who is nothing and does nothing?” The tone 
was light enough, and the girl, engrossed in her own hap- 
piness, did not detect an unusual note of bitterness. For 
Colin Paton was never bitter. He could be sarcastic 
and even scathing when roused, but he never indulged 
in the refuge of cowardly souls. 

Claudia took him quite seriously, for happiness, just 
as sorrow, may temporarily obscure a sense of humour. 
“I forbid you to say such things of yourself,” she said, 
with an engaging air of motherliness. “You’re awfully 
clever— awfully clever. Why, you are one of the best- 


6o 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


read and best-informed men in London.” Suddenly she 
realized how often she had turned to him for information 
or advice. And she could never remember an occasion 
on which he had failed her, or an opinion that her critical 
faculty on reflection deemed unsound. 

“No market value, dear lady.” 

She paused a moment thoughtfully. “Is that true?” 
she said slowly. “Gilbert said that the other day when 
I asked him if he had read something. He says he has 
no time for books, it’s as much as he can do to read 
the newspapers .... Somehow it seems all wrong.” She 
looked away with a puzzled expression at the trees of 
the Park. 

He cast a quick glance at her profile and the beautiful 
lines of her throat. He seemed about to say something 
with unusual impetuosity, and then he resolutely locked 
his lips. He allowed her to go on speaking. 

“Ambition gets in the way of — of a lot of other things, 
doesn’t it? It seems a voracious dragon, swallowing up 
everything: friends, books, pictures — all the beautiful, 
graceful things of life. Isn’t it a pity?” 

“I think so; but then I’m in the minority.” 

“And that’s why you are not ambitious,” she flashed 
out with sudden insight. “Yes, I see. I wonder if you 
are right.” Her voice was a little wistful. 

“No,” he said, with resolute reassurance. “No. I’m 
wrong, and Gilbert is right. Wife of the Lord Chief 
Justice — what greater honour could you wish?” 

“Now you are making fun of me,” she replied, with 
a tiny frown, “and I was quite serious. It’s difficult to 
explain. But — well, I hate the usual sort of man who 
does nothing except wear his clothes well, don’t you? 
Look at Jack. He sets off his uniform beautifully, but 
he just footles his life away. There doesn’t seem any- 
thing between that and great strenuosity — except you. I 
can’t place you. Somehow you always make me see 


GREEN BAY-LEAVES 


61 


things in a different perspective from anyone else. I 
wonder why it is. Sometimes you make things seem better 
and sometimes you make them seem worse.” 

He drew in his breath a little and his hand in its thin 
suede covering clenched itself on his knee. “Claudia, 
you mustn’t let me make things seem worse or any 
different from — what they are. I’d be content if my 
mission in life were to make things better, not worse, 
for you. Not that you want that now,” he added hastily, 
pulling himself in. “I know, from things you have left 
unsaid, that your home life hasn’t been all you wanted 
and ought to have had, but now — now you are going to 
be very happy. Gilbert is a splendid fellow.” 

She turned to him, her face glowing, her eyes deep 
and dark with emotion. 

“Yes, I think I am going to be very happy. Somehow 
you have always understood. I have never had, to tell 
you things. You see, nobody ever wanted me very much, 
and I — I wanted somebody to want me and to rely on me 
and care for my companionship. It is so wonderful to 
think that our interests are one, that what interests me 
interests him, that I can tell him my good news and bad 
news and be always sure that I don’t bore him. I’ve 
always had to bottle up things. I’ve had one or two girl 
friends, but it isn’t the same. And even then they get 
engaged and married and you fall in the background. 
But when I’ve got a husband of my own it will be 
different, won’t it?” 

He hesitated the fraction of a second. “Yes, Claudia, 
it will be different. You know how glad I am that you 
have found happiness, don’t you ? I wanted that so much 
for my — friend.” 

“And isn’t it nice that I am marrying your friend?” 
she exclaimed joyfully. “Because you might not have 
liked my husband, or my husband might not have liked 
you. Oh, I know,” sagely. “I have heard from my 


62 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


friends who got married, that it is sometimes very diffi- 
cult. But you and Gilbert are friends, and you and I are 
friends. It’s quite ideal, isn’t it?” 

“Yes,” he said cryptically, “quite ideal. The ideal is 
always the unattainable.” 

“But you must marry too,” she persisted, “because I 
am sure I should like your wife. There are some men 
that one knows and likes that one feels doubtful about 
their choice of a wife, and there are others — like you — 
one is sure it will be all right.” She laughed gaily. 
“Won’t you get married to please me ?” 

No one could have guessed there was any effort in his 
laughing reply. “I know. You are planning to get rid 
of some obnoxious wedding-present on me, something 
especially hideous in the way of rose-bowls or tea- 
services. No, I absolutely refuse to accommodate you.” 

“Well, at least promise me to come back soon,” she 
smiled as' the motor stopped before thq entrance to the 
galleries. “I shall want to discuss a thousand things 
with you long before you’ve got to the Argentine. I 
think I shall keep a little book and call it ‘The Paton 
Diary/ In it I shall enter all sorts of queries and the 
names of books and pictures and music that I want to 
discuss with you.” 

“Heavens! I shall never come back!” Her hand 
rested in his as he helped her to alight, and she gave 
him a mischievous squeeze. 

“No, but really.” 

“Really, I will come back as — soon as I can, and I 
shall be grateful if the ‘Paton Diary’ will keep my 

memory green I hear there is a wonderful Giorgione 

here. You remember those two we saw here last 
year. . . .” 


CHAPTER VI 


A mothers' meeting 

O UR respected mother has what you would call 
a tarnished reputation." Pat said it in a mild 
and thoughtful manner, as she and Claudia exercised 
Billie in the Park to try and keep his figure within 
reasonable bounds. 

“Pat!” exclaimed Claudia, abruptly recalled from 
her own thoughts. “You have no right to say such 
things.” Sisters who are not yet out and three years 
one's junior must be kept in order. 

“Why not? It's true, I suppose. I was sitting here 
among a lot of people yesterday and mother, drove by. 
The two women at the back began to talk. At first, I 
didn’t know they were discussing mother, till they men- 
tioned you. When they said ‘Her daughter Claudia has 
just got engaged to Gilbert Currey, it’s to be hoped she 
won’t follow in her mother’s footsteps,’ I twigged.” 

“You shouldn’t have listened,” rebuked Claudia in- 
dignantly. 

“Well, I was hedged in, and I should have had to 
plough my way over such a lot of feet to get away, 
and I couldn’t turn round and say ‘Excuse me, you’re 
discussing my mother and sister,’ could I ?” 

63 


64 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


“I should have got up, feet or no feet,” returned her 
sister. 

“Mother seems to have had a pretty good time, ac- 
cording to these two women. They rattled off mother’s 
amours with great gusto. They were alternately shocked 
and envious — the combination was funny/’ 

“Nasty-minded gossips !” 

“I should have liked to turn round and say ‘Sour 
grapes/ I suppose mother has gone the pace. She’s 
been a sort of Helen of Troy, hasn’t she? Notorious 
for her temperament and beauty.” 

“Women like that always invent a lot of scandal.” 
Claudia shrugged her shoulders. “It’s a sort of conven- 
tion with them to think that all women in society live 

immoral lives Billie, no, you mustn’t bite little boys’ 

legs. I know it’s only in play, but they don’t like it.” 

“Mother must have been stunning when she was 
young, in the days of the portrait,” continued Pat re- 
flectively. “If I had been a man I should have fallen 
in love with her. Nothing mild and namby-pamby for 
me, thank you. I’ve a good deal of sympathy with her, 
for father is a bore. Only I can’t see how she could 
have been in love with so many men. Most men are 
so deadly uninspiring. I expect falling in love became 
a habit with mother.” 

“Really, Pat, I don’t think we ought to discuss 
her.” 

“Why? Because she is our mother? But she doesn’t 
feel like our mother — she told me so the other day — 
and she wouldn’t mind our discussing her a bit, just as 
though she were next-door neighbour.” Claudia could 
not contradict this, for Mrs. Iverson had never tried 
or wanted to be a mother to her children. The children 
had “happened” and been promptly relegated to the 
nursery. As soon as she was well she forgot them just 
as she forgot an annoying attack of influenza. 


A MOTHERS’ MEETING 65 

“Claudia, do you feel you could fall in love with a 
lot of men?” 

“Pat! what awful questions you ask. I should think 

that ” She stopped herself. She was going to add, 

“No nice woman could fall in love with a lot of men,” 
but this would reflect on her mother, and out of loyalty 
and decency she could not say it, rather for what her 
mother might have been to her than what she was. So 
she said instead, “I haven’t thought about it, and if I 
were you, I shouldn’t. You’re too young to worry about 
sex problems. The little I have thought about them 
has only confused me; it seems such an enormous sub- 
ject. One would have to be a Methuselah to have time 
enough to study it. I am sure threescore years and ten 
is too little.” 

“I suppose it is all a question of experience,” said Pat 
slowly. “If only mother would tell us all she had learned ! 
That would be better than all the silly morals and 
maxims that surround you like a barbed wire fence.” 

Claudia stole a glance at Pat as she strode along, her 
skin flushed by the warmth of the sun, her corn-coloured 
hair glowing under her big white hat. How much did 
Pat know of the things she discussed so lightly? How 
much did she herself know, for that matter. And yet, 
quietly and earnestly, she had been watching men and 
women since her debut a year since. She had seen the 
fair surface and some of the dark undercurrent, she 
had kept her ears and her eyes open and her mind as 
far as possible unbiased, but what was the harvest? 
How much did she really know ? She did not make 
the mistake of thinking men angels or devils, she tried, 
on Paton’s advice, not to generalize — the temptation 
of youth — she knew that, on the whole, she liked the 
masculine sex better than her own, but what did she 
know that she could impart to a younger sister? As 
she looked at Pat, she wondered if she ought to try and 


66 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


find out where Pat stood. Ought she to try and in- 
fluence her sister in any way? Pat was such a queer 
mixture. Sometimes she talked like an overgrown, 
slangy schoolgirl, and the next minute she would speak 
with the callous knowledge of a woman of forty ; some- 
times she showed signs of deep affection and strong 
emotions, which again would give place to a curious 
aloofness and independence. 

Lady Currey was coming to lunch that day with the 
Iversons, an event which Claudia dreaded. Mrs. Iverson 
had lazily decided that, under the circumstances, she 
ought to offer her some hospitality, and Lady Currey 
had felt it only right and fitting to accept. Her husband 
was confined to their house in the country with an at- 
tack of gout. Gilbert had pleaded that he was too busy 
to accompany her. 

Punctually at half-past one — the clock was striking — 
Lady Currey arrived. Mrs. Iverson was not down yet, 
but she was never punctual, except when her clock was 
fast. Claudia had to receive Gilbert’s mother. 

She wanted to like her, but her heart sank a little at 
Lady Currey’s formal greeting. Sometimes she had 
hoped — before she had considered Gilbert in the light 
of a possible husband — that when she married, her 
husband’s mother might be someone to whom she could, 
and would be allowed to, feel daughterly. She knew it 
was rare, but she would meet a nice mother-in-law more 
than half way, for there was no holy of holies occupied 
by a real mother. One could ask Mrs. Iverson’s advice 
on dress — not too often, because it bored her to give 
advice on any subject — but Claudia felt she had room 
in her heart for a nice cosy elderly woman, who might 
be a guide, philosopher and friend. 

“Mother will be down directly,” said Claudia, with a 
heightened colour. “Will you not take this chair? It 
is more comfortable than that one.” 


A MOTHERS’ MEETING 


67 


“Thank you, but I do not care for those low, padded 
chairs. They induce habits of indulgence. I was 
brought up to sit on hard, straight-backed chairs, so I 
never acquired the habit of lolling.” 

She looked critically round the drawing-room, which 
was full of graceful and beautiful things. At one end, 
looking down insolently upon her, was the famous Circe 
picture. It dominated the whole room. The only other 
pictures were landscapes, a couple of Olssons, an ex- 
quisite Whistler, which the artist had himself given to 
Mrs. Iverson, a Sisley and a small Cezanne. But they 
were all subservient to the glowing Circe in her wonder- 
ful clinging blue robes. The whole room had apparently 
been designed as a frame for the portrait, for it was a 
harmony of dull blues and faded pinks. A case of 
miniatures at her elbow contained some exquisite Cosway 
beauties and some rare scraps of old Venetian gold- 
smiths’ work. Lady Currey caught sight of a Vernis 
Martin cabinet full of priceless Sevres and some Chelsea 
figures that made the collector’s mouth water. It was 
annoying to think that Sybil owned such china, for 
Lady Currey was sure she did not value it. 

“You have some beautiful pieces here,” she said to 
Claudia, crossing to look at the cabinet. 

“Yes, I believe they are considered very fine. I am 
afraid I don’t know much about china myself.” If 
Claudia had only known it, her last chance was 
gone. Lady Currey’s eyebrows went up in con- 
tempt. But the china was exquisite and avenged 
Claudia’s slip. 

Lady Currey turned away and glanced at the clock. 
Twenty to two ! Where was her hostess ? 

The door opened, but it was only Patricia with Billie 
at her heels. “Billie was crying for you, Claudia. I 
let him loose. I thought you had forgotten him.” 

Claudia had instinctively felt that Lady Currey was 


68 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


the type of woman who disapproved of dogs in the 
house, so she had tied him up. 

Pat surveyed the visitor with her clear blue eyes. 
Very precise and a little dowdy did Lady Currey look 
that day. Her grey silk was a dull shade, her ornaments 
were valuable, but belonged to the day when diamonds 
were deeply embedded in gold, her toque was as near 
to a bonnet as she could buy. Pat took it all in and her 
lips said “prunes and prism” behind their visitor’s back. 

“Ripping day, isn’t it?” she said affably. “Doesn’t 
it make you feel as if you’d like to turn somersaults on 
the grass and yell like a wild Indian every time you 
come right side up?” 

Claudia stifled a laugh at Lady Currey’s expression. 

Of course, Sybil’s children would be terrible and 
lawless. She disliked anything so large and athletic as 
Pat, and privately thought that so much flesh and bone 
inclined to coarseness. She was of the small and tidy 
type herself. 

“There’s no way of letting off steam nowadays, is 
there ?” continued Pat, unabashed by Lady Currey’s 
stare, and crossing her legs so as to display a large ex- 
panse of silk-covered calf. “That’s why people get 
into mischief. They boil up inside, sometimes you can 
feel the bubbles!” 

“That’s because you’re a very young kettle,” inter- 
posed Claudia hastily. 

But at that moment — five minutes to two — Sybil 
Iverson glided into the room. Her figure was still won- 
derful, willowy and most seductive in its lissomness. She 
was wearing a dress that showed every curve of it, and 
the transparent guimpe of her bodice showed the gleam 
of her neck in a manner that Lady Currey found very 
indecent. Her hair, burnished and waved in a carefully 
negligent fashion, matched her slightly tinted complexion. 
The whole effect was pleasingly artificial, like that of 


A MOTHERS’ MEETING 69 

some rare orchid. She was still Circe — after a, careful 
toilette. 

“Ah! Marian, what a long time since we met! But 
you are just the same.” 

“We are both considerably older,” sa»d the companion 
of her girlhood with emphasis. 

“Are we really? I have ceased to be a body, I am 
now only a spirit, and spirits know no age.” She let 
her heavy lids drop over her eyes, a trick which Lady 
Currey had always disliked. “I have learned to project 
the soul into space and leave the body behind. Have 
you ever pierced through the intangible walls of the Un- 
seen, Marian?” 

“I attend regularly to my religious duties,” said her 
visitor shortly, rather nonplussed by Circe’s new attitude. 
Her flippancies she knew and could meet, but this was 
something that verged on her own preserves. 

“Ah! that is not quite the same.” The hostess smiled 
sweetly upon her. “But now we will go in to lunch. 
Gilbert is not coming, I think?” 

“He has his work,” said his mother. “You cannot 
expect such a man to dance attendance on a woman.” 

“Oh! I quite understand,” interjected Claudia. “I 
did not expect he would come.” 

“He has the aura of a successful man.” said Circe 
dreamily. “I saw it quite distinctly last night. But 
there was something mingled with it — I saw a vivid streak 

of purple ” She shook her head mysteriously and 

broke off the sentence. 

“I shouldn’t say there were any purple patches about 
Gilbert,” smiled Claudia, across the rose-bowl. 

“I do not understand the phrase,” said Lady Currey 
acidly. “Will you explainl it to me?” 

Patricia gave an audible chuckle, and Claudia looked 
imploringly at her mother. 

“Purple patches,” Said Circe vaguely, “stand for all 


7 ° 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


the wonderful emotions and sensations that make this 
life a thing of magic and mystery. A purple patch — what 
is it? It may be a minute, a second even — the look from 
someone’s eyes caught in a crowd — a chord of music — 
a whiff of perfume — an hour of passion — a day of mem- 
ories — the song of a bird — anything rare and evanescent. 
Purple patches are moments of crystallization, of ecstasy, 
of poetry, of life; patches that glow in your heart for 
years and I think, even when you are dead shroud it in 
royal mourning. ,, 

She came out of her dream and took the salmon 
mayonnaise that the butler had been patiently holding. 

“I am glad to think there are no purple patches on 
my son,” said his mother dryly, dubbing her hostess “a 
mass of affectation.” 

“No, I don’t think a successful barrister would be 
likely to stray into Wonderland. Documents of the law, 
blue paper and crude red tape do not harmonize with 
purple, do they? Claudia, will you remember that when 
I die I want to be buried in purple silk and the coffin 
must be lined with a deep shade of crimson. I think I 
might select the colours when I have time. The wrong 
crimson would be so fatal to my hair.” 

Billie suddenly gave a little howl from his seat on the 
sofa as though the conversation depressed him. Lady 
Currey looked her disapproval of him, and Claudia 
shushed him. 

Then she tried to change the subject in deference to 
the dachshund’s tender feelings. 

“Isn’t it delightful, Lady Currey? I had a letter from 
father’s old friend, the Countess Ravogli, this morning, 
sending her congratulations and offering us her beauti- 
ful villa on the Lake of Como for the honeymoon. I 
have seen photographs of it, and it is too sweet for 
words.” 

“Does Gilbert like the idea?” 


A MOTHERS’ MEETING 


7 1 


“I haven’t told him yet, but he is sure to like it. It 
is a sort of fairy castle with an enchanted garden full 
of wonderful sculpture and strange flowers. There is a 
terrace of white marble brought from Greece and a foun- 
tain of coloured waters. It must be perfectly delicious. I 
have always dreamed of it as an ideal honeymoon place.” 

“One must be very young to look well in such a 
place,” said her mother. “The Countess tried to get me 
to visit her, but I declined. White marble is only suit- 
able to the eternal youth of gods and goddesses and it 
is so chilly ! A marble terrace always sounds delightful, 
but as a matter of fact it generally gives you cold feet 
and you have to fly in and demand hot-water bottles, 
and there is nothing romantic about a hot-water bottle.” 

“The drinking-water is so bad in Italy,” remarked 
Lady Currey. “I do hope you will be careful.” 

After luncheon, Mrs. Iverson carried off Lady Currey 
to her boudoir on the plea of reviving old memories. 
Claudia was relieved, but surprised, for her mother 
seldom took any but her very special cronies into her 
private apartments. 

Circe lit a cigarette — the room was already heavy with 
some Oriental perfume which made Lady Currey sniff — 
and made herself thoroughly comfortable and picturesque 
on a low divan. Lady Currey told herself that it was 
exactly like a room in a harem, never having been in 
one. 

“It is strange your boy should be marrying my girl,” 
commenced Mrs. Iverson, watching the pearly grey 
smoke rise in the air. “I confess I thought Claudia would 
have married quite differently.” Her voice was danger- 
ously sweet. 

“Indeed,” said Lady Currey. The perfume irritated 
her, and she felt a desire to sneeze. 

“Yes, quite differently. But neither her father nor I 
would try k to interfere with her choice. I have always 


72 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


allowed my children full liberty of action. And though 
Claudia would have had an enviable position as the 
Duchess of Swansea, I recognize her right to choose as 
her heart dictates. I saw the Duke last night, and he 
was very downcast. He thought Claudia might relent. 
Charming fellow, isn’t he?” 

She opened her eyes blandly upon her visitor, and 
nothing but good will to men and contempt for women 
shone from them. 

Lady Currey, who moved very little in London society 
now, did not personally know Swansea, but knew him 
to be one of the most eligible partis of the day. She 
had heard a vague rumour of Swansea’s attentions to 
Claudia from another quarter and saw no reason to 
doubt Circe’s news. She was nettled, and felt she was 
being placed in a false position. It revived old memories. 
Circe had possessed this trick as a young girl. 

“Gilbert is bound to do well,” she said hastily. 

“Of course.” Circe lit another cigarette. “But the 
future — well, it is the future ! Futures are like horses — 
you can never count on them! If they could only invent 
automatic horses and automatic futures! Still, I have 
no doubt he will arrive one day, if Claudia is patient. 
Personally, I should have no patience to wait for a 
future.” 

“Gilbert will make an excellent husband.” Lady 
Currey, to her great amazement, perceived that she was 
actually holding a brief for Gilbert. The thing was 
absurd. 

“Oh, yes!” murmured her old friend vaguely. “But 
all the old-fashioned virtues are so out of date now, like 
four-wheelers and stage-coaches. The modern excellent 
husband is such a different article from what we called 
an excellent husband fifty years ago. I often think what 
a dreadful bore that good, old-fashioned husband must 
have been. I am sure those Early Victorian wives must 


A MOTHERS’ MEETING 


73 

have died of their partners’ excellences. Have you 
noticed how sad they always look in their portraits?” 

“In my young days marriage was considered a sacra- 
ment,” remarked Lady Currey stiffly, glancing out of the 
corner of her eye at a notable array of masculine por- 
traits. “I consider the interpretation and shortening of 
the marriage service nowadays scandalous. The Bishop 
of Dorminster quite agrees with me.” 

“I am sure he would. If you sell patent medicines, 

you must believe in patent medicines. Why don’t you 

start a campaign against it? I can see you at the head 
of a flourishing Anti society. I would join it with pleas- 
ure, Marian.” 

Lady Currey stiffened. Gilbert has very nice ideas 
about women.” 

“What are nice ideas about women, Marian?” 

“He treats women with respect and proper deference.” 

“How dull !” murmured Circe, looking at the portrait 
of a man who had not treated her with undue respect. 

“I beg your pardon ?” 

“I said how delightful. But I hope he can — er — offer 
Claudia something more than respect. I hope he appre- 
ciates her and can offer a good deal of love and admira- 
tion. Some people set a great store by love — I fancy 
Claudia does. You see, that would be/ the one thing — 
you will forgive my speaking frankly like an old friend 
— that would compensate her father and me for a less 
good match than we had the right to expect. We want 
her to be happy, but Claudia is very much admired. She 
has had many good offers — I know, though she hasn’t 
told me — and I should feel a little sad if I thought 
Gilbert did not adore her. She is really rather a dear. 
I quite admire her myself, and I admire very few 
women.” 

There was a short pause while Lady Currey struggled 
for words. 


74 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


“I — I believe he is very much in love with her,” she 
said at last, flushing angrily. 

“Ah! that is what I brought you up here to know. 
Love compensates for any worldly loss, does it not?... 
Dear Marian, I am afraid I must go out now, but it is 
charming to think that your son is going to marry 
Claudia. It reunites up again in the bonds of friendship. 
I am sure Gilbert is charming. Claudia is a lucky girl.” 

Lady Currey was not to be outdone. She rose primly 
in her grey silk. 

“Claudia is very handsome. It is Gilbert who is 
lucky.” 

Thus ended a little Mothers’ Meeting. 


CHAPTER VII 


“love is the only convention" 

C LAUDIA was spending the week-end out of town 
at Holme Court, Wargrave, where one of her 
aunts, Mrs. Armesby Croft, always spent a good part of 
the summer. Gilbert had also been invited and her 
brother Jack, but Jack had refused to go. 

She was coming down the stairs on the Friday morn- 
ing and heard a familiar whistling. Jack’s door was 
open, and the musical-comedy tune — rather flat — pro- 
ceeded from his room. 

“Jack, I do wish you wouldn’t whistle so flat. Can’t 
you get your whistle manicured, or something?’’ 

“Hallo! Claud, that you? Come in, I’m nearly all 
there.” 

The late hours he habitually kept had not yet left 
any mark on Jack Iverson. This morning he looked 
wonderfully young and fresh, although he had not 
tumbled into bed until past three. Youth has a mag- 
nificent elasticity, and he looked like a modern god that 
has tubbed and shaved and is ready for a good breakfast. 

“Why aren’t you coming down to Wargrave?” in- 
quired Claudia, sauntering into^ his . apartment. “It’s 
just the week-end for the river.” 

“Maybe I am going on the river,” said Jack, with a 
knowing air, settling his tie in the mirror. “I’ve had 
on seven ties this morning. How’s this one?” 

“Looks all right. I don’t notice anything wrong, so I 
suppose it’s all right. That’s the test of men’s dressing, 
isn’t it? Why not Wargrave?” 

75 


76 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


“Because, though Aunt Margaret is a clinking good 
sort and keeps a jolly good table, she is not a ravishing 
companion. You’re only my sister, and — ’nuff said.” 

Claudia looked at him, and her lip curled. “That 
means you are going up the river with a ravishing com- 
panion, I suppose?” 

“Thou supposeth rightly, oh, wise one! She’s just 
the most fascinating thing you ever struck.” 

“Which musical comedy?” queried Claudia, running 
her eyes over the collection of invitation cards and pretty 
women on his mantelshelf. The portraits had inscrip- 
tions on them of considerable fervour, and she noticed 
a family resemblance in the handwritings, which were 
either sprawly or very dashing, with huge flourishes at 
the end like a stockwhip in action. 

“Never you mind. But she’s a duck, the very thing 
for a steam-launch. Got the neatest thing in ankles you 
ever saw. Beastly taking a woman with thick ankles 
on the river. They’re best hidden under a dinner- 
table.” 

“Can she talk about anything?” asked Claudia curi- 
ously, picking up a photograph of a smile and a 
shoulder. 

“She can talk well enough when she wants to. Oh! 
I knowi you, Claudia, we’ve had this discussion before. 
I’ve told you I don’t like clever women. I hate a girl 
who wants to impress you and talks like a smart novel. 
Give me a nice, affectionate little thing who’s got a 
string of funny stories; and doesn’t make too many de- 
mands on a fellow. She’s worth a hundren clever 
women, with their soaring nonsense.” 

“Is she?” Claudia looked at him thoughtfully as he 
put his watch in his waistcoat. I often wonder why you 
and men like you prefer to spend your time with— well, 
affectionate little things, rather than with girls in your 
own set. Personally, I can’t understand your taste. I 


LOVE IS THE ONLY CONVENTION” 77 


am sure these girls have common ways and petty 
thoughts. I couldn’t stand a musical-comedy man for 
five minutes.” 

“Oh! that’s different. The men are awful bounders; 
you’re quite right. I’d like to see one of them make up 
to you !” 

“Why is it so different?” 

“Well, it is. I can’t explain things like that to you, 
but it is. You’re brainy, old girl, and I don’t pretend 
to be brainy. A lot of good brains do a woman, unless 
she’s a schoolmistress. Not that Ruby is stupid. She’s 
— well, she’s bright, if you know what I mean. She 
knows how to get what she wants, and knows her way 
about.” 

“The cleverness of the gamin,” observed Claudia coolly. 

“Well, anyway, she’s clever enough for me. You can 
be easy and comfortable with her, and she’s an amusing 
companion. Doesn’t go in for moods and all that non- 
sense. I like ’em bright and chirpy, I confess. If you 
girls only knew how your confounded moods and fancies 
bore a fellow. Why, look at you. You’re full of whims 
and fancies. You can be an awfully good companion if 
you like — none better; but one never knows what you 
will, want the next moment. You women expect us to 
transpose ourselves to your key every few minutes. It’s 
a damned nuisance, Claudia. Take my advice, don’t try 
too many moods on with Gilbert.” 1 

“You think there is much in common between you 
and Gilbert?” Claudia’s voice was sarcastic. 

“Yes more than you think,” flashed out Jack unex- 
pectedly. “Oh! I know all about his brains, but other- 
wise he’s much the same as me. He doesn’t care enough 
about women generally to make a study of ’em.” 

“I’m glad of that.” 

“He’s too indifferent, and I’m too lazy,” continued 
young Iverson, bent on pursuing his train of thought. 


78 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


“I daresay women are nice to me because Fve got plenty 
of money — you are right in some cases — but as long as 
they are nice, what matters ?” 

“From your point of view, not at all, if you only 
want a woman as a mere plaything, to smile automatically 
the moment you appear, and produce a funny story when 
you turn a handle. You want a doll, Jack, not a woman, 
a pretty, jointed doll, that squeaks ‘darling’ when you 
come up to it, and which you can pick up when you like 
and drop when you like.” 

“My dear girl,” said Jack, with a condescending smile 
“you can’t understand. Women never do understand 
these things. They talk a lot about sex nowadays, but 
it’s all talk. The proposition is quite a simple one, if 
you women wouldn’t wrap it up with complexities.” 

“Well, I’m glad I don’t understand,” she returned 
warmly. “And if I were a man I don’t think I should 
understand either. I hope I should be more fastidious.” 
She pounced on a jeweller’s morocco case. “Hallo! 
May I look, Jack?” 

Jack nodded. He rather liked Claudia when she was 
not too brainy and analytical. 

She opened the case with a click. It contained a very 
handsome pendant with pearl drop and a big ruby in 
the centre. 

“Pretty, isn’t it?” said Jack complacently. “The ruby 
was my own idea — her name — d’yer see?” 

“Quite subtle,” said Claudia gravely; “but I daresay, 
if you explain it, she’ll see the point.” 

“Eh ? Oh, well ! they like a little present occasionally. 
And if you saw her pleasure at anything you give her — 
well, you feel you want to go and buy her the whole 
shopfull at once.” 

“H’m. I think I was wrong in suggesting she was not 
clever. Let’s go down to breakfast, Jacky.” 

“You see,” said Jack confidentially, as they went down 


"LOVE IS THE ONLY CONVENTION” 79 


the stairs, “a fellow likes to be appreciated. You re- 
member that, my dear, now you are going to be married. 
Don’t have any moods, and always be appreciative and 
bright. That does the trick every time. Take my 
advice.” 

“Thank you. I’ll be sure and remember. Appre- 
ciative and bright. I might have it framed.” 

“Don’t you fancy I don’t know anything about women. 
You’re a nut, Claudia, I admire you no end, but really 
you make too great demands on a chap. Come on, I 
eould eat a tin can this morning.” 

Later that day Claudia was lying very comfortably in 
a big wicker chair under an old elm-tree at Holme Court, 
when Gilbert arrived. He looked noticeably tired and 
fagged, for the week had been a very hot one, and he 
had been hard at it. He did not specially remark the 
pretty picture she made in her cool white linen against 
the green background, but he appreciated the shade of 
the elm. His chambers were abominably stuffy. 

“Poor boy!” said Claudia softly. “Your’re tired, I 
can see. I’ll be soothing. You don’t want me to tell 
funny stories, do you?” 

Gilbert’s eyes opened in blank surprise, but he caught 
the twinkle in her eyes, and the smouldering laugh in 
the corners of her mouth as she watched him. He knew 
there was a joke somewhere, but he was much too hot 
and tired to worry it out. Instead he looked at Claudia’s 
mouth, which was soft and red, with a most provocative 
pout. 

“It’s too warm even to laugh. But it’s nice and cool 
here.” He dropped into a chair with a huge sigh of 
content. 

“We are all alone here,” said Claudia happily. “The 
others have gone on the river, but I waited for you.” 
There was no one in sight except a couple of birds hop- 
ping about in search of a worm. “I am going to give you 


8o 


CIRCE'S DAUGHTER 


some tea out here, and then we will go down and get 
one of the boats out." She dropped a kiss on his hair, 
which already had several silver threads in it. “I thought 
I’d stop and mother a poor tired boy! Somehow — 
wasn’t it ridiculous of me? — I fancied you would like 
to have me all to yourself.’’ She laughed a little. “It’s 
rather nice to have someone to pet and fuss over. I’ve 
never had anyone who would let me do it. Mother hates 
us even to kiss her — we do it once a year, at Christmas, 
when we thank her for her present — and Pat is too tom- 
boyish to like being petted. I had to fall back on Billie. 
He can stand any amount of it, but still — well, he’s only 
a dog.’’ 

“Does that mean I have cut out Billie,’’ said Gilbert 
lazily. Her hands, with their soft, rather mesmeric 
fingertips, gave him agreeable sensations in keeping with 
idle hours and summer days. 

“No, it doesn’t. As a matter of fact I feel so happy 
that I could pet the whole world !’’ 

“A tall order ! But, I say, I’d rather you didn’t do it 
to the masculine half. They might misunderstand your 
mothering instinct.’’ 

She laughed and dropped another kiss on his hair 
before she went back to her seat among the cushions. 
Involuntarily he put up his hand and smoothed his hair, 
which was in no way disturbed. It was thick and 
straight, and spoke of his abundant energy. 

“Gilbert! Don’t brush my kisses off. You are 
ungallant.’’ 

“Sorry, dear. I didn’t mean to brush them off, but 
a man hates the idea that his hair has got ruffled.’’ 

“That’s because you are afraid of looking ridiculous! 
Men are very dignified animals, aren’t they? I believe 
you’re a particularly dignified, conventional specimen!’’ 

The maid was approaching with the tea-tray. As she 
came across the lawn, the silver caught the rays of the 


‘LOVE IS THE ONLY CONVENTION” 81 


sun and threw them back in radiant shafts of light. The 
maid’s cap and apron seemed dazzlingly white against 
the green and blue of the sky and garden. 

“Of course, I’m conventional,” responded Gilbert. 
“Haven’t you discovered that before? Only weak people 
are unconventional.” 

Claudia pondered this saying as she watched the maid 
arrange the table. 

“I don’t believe that is altogether true,” she said at 
length, taking hold of the teapot. 

“Of course not. Nothing is altogether true and 
nothing is altogether false. Plenty of milk, please.” 

“I don’t believe I have a conventional, tidy mind. I 
can imagine myself doing quite unconventional things, 
and I don’t believe I should realize they were unconven- 
tional till I looked back.” 

“That’s having no mind at all.” He looked at her 
teasingly. “The little pink abominations out of the cake- 
basket, please.” 

“And then you’d be terribly shocked and put on your 
barrister air, and say ‘Didn’t you know that. . . ?’ You 
don’t altogether hold a brief for conventionality, do 
you ?” 

“It’s the safest and most convenient path,” he said, 
stirring his tea. “Personally, I have no quarrel with 
convention.” 

“Don’t you believe that circumstances may sometimes 
force you to do unconventional things when convention 
means death to the spirit?” 

“I make allowances for weakness, because weakness 
is the rule and strength the exception. The world gets 
weaker-willed and more neurotic every day. That’s why 
one hears so much talk of ‘individualty,’ ‘independence,’ 
et cetera. More cake, please.” 

Claudia shook her head, not at the request for more 
cake, but at his dicta. 


8 2 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


“That’s not right. You are making no allowance for 
temperament. Sometimes it’s really brave to be uncon- 
ventional.” 

“More often weak and cowardly,” retorted Gilbert, 
“and the unconventional people usually put other people 
in a hopeless mess.” 

“I don’t believe you were ever tempted to do any- 
thing unconventional.” Claudia looked at him, and it 
crossed her mind that he was very unlike her mother’s 
friends. 

“No, I don’t pretend to have withstood great tempta- 
tions in that line. Trespassers will be prosecuted’ 
doesn’t enrage me. I put the same notice-board on my 
own property, and am content.” 

“I see. Will that notice-board cover — your wife?” 
She was smiling at him, but there was a hint of earnest 
in the dark eyes. 

“Most certainly, madam. The rest of the world may 
admire you — from a safe distance.” He found her 
looking very pretty behind the silver, the sun through 
the green branches just flecking her hair. “I warn you 
I should not make a complaisant husband if I found 
someone trespassing.” He laughed as he said it, but 
there was a decided champ of his jaws, which she noticed 
and secretly admired. 

“And I shouldn’t be marrying you if I thought you 
would,” she replied, with a sudden touch of fire in her 
voice. “One sees so much of that and it is so — so 
horrible. One despises the husband more than the wife.” 
Then she went on more slowly. “I think most women 
feel the same about it, although they say they want per- 
fect freedom in such matters. Women are playing a 
game of bluff nowadays. They don’t want a husband 
to be complaisant.” 

He looked across at her, and his mother’s warnings 
came back to him. Claudia like her mother? Why, 


LOVE IS THE ONLY CONVENTION” 83 


she had just naively acknowledged that she only wanted 
to be dominated by a strong man. Geoffrey Iverson had 
always been a slackster. A weak man makes a Circe. If 
a man cannot hold a woman, he deserves and must ex- 
pect to lose her. Life to-day is not so far removed from 
savagery after all. The strong man always wins. And 
had he not won so far all along the line? Had he not 
taken and kept all that he needed? His mother did not 
understand that there was no cause to fear. A palmist 
had once told him that he possessed an indomitable will. 
He knew that she was right. His thoughts flew back, 
induced by the peace and quiet, to the last few years at 
the Bar. He had out-distanced all his rivals. Men 
who had eaten their dinners at the same time as he 
well still unknown, briefless. And some of them had 
shown brilliant promise, some of them had worked hard, 
too. He knew that already, although he was so young, 
there was a rumour that he might shortly be taking silk. 

Claudia, her chin propped on the palm of her hand, 
had been watching him, and with a woman’s swift un- 
canny intuition she knew that he had ceased to think of 
her, that she had lost touch with him. With a touch of 
jealousy she cried: 

“Gilbert, come back to me. Of what were you 
thinking?” 

He came back at once, but without the faintest com- 
prehension that she had felt left out in the cold, had 
divined that she had a serious rival. 

“Suppose I say I was thinking of nothing in 
particular?” 

She shook her head. “It wouldn’t be true. You were 
thinking of something that pleased you and — and inter- 
ested you enormously. Your eyes were dark with 

thought, and there was a glint in them Ah! you 

were back in your chambers with your briefs?” 

He laughed. 


8 4 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


“Yes, I was right. You had deliberately left this 
sweet, sunny garden and — and me, and gone back to 
those stuffy chambers. We haven’t seen one another for 
four days, and you’d gone back to your work.” 

There was an edge to her voice that roused him. 

“Claudia, dear, I am very happy here with you, but 
one can’t control one’s thoughts or shut watertight doors 
on one’s affairs. A woman’s life is different. Men can- 
not help mingling their business with their pleasure.” 

“You mean we have nothing else to think of but 
you?” She threw up her head at an angle which was 
particularly becoming, and showed the softness and 
whiteness of her throat in the collarless dress. 

“No,” he said, “but you haven’t any big objective 
in life. My dear Claudia, if you understood the keen 
competition nowadays, you wouldn’t mind a man’s 
thoughts straying back to the fray. You don’t really, 
you are much too clever to want a stupid, love-sick 
swain who can talk or think of nothing else but love. 
You have said many times that you are in complete 
sympathy with my ambitions. Don’t be feminine and 
illogical. I was flattering myself” — he put his hand on 
hers with his most engaging smile — “that I had won 
a super-feminine and logical wife.” 

“I am in sympathy with you Gilbert.” She carefully 
kept her eyes from his face, as though that would break 
the chain of her thoughts. “And I don’t want you to 

be a stupid, love-sick swain, but ” How could she 

make him understand without seeming petty and un- 
reasonable? “Gilbert,” she went on quickly, determined 
to say frankly what she was thinking, “is everything in 
your life subservient to your work? Sometimes you 
talk as if everything else — as though we were the rungs 
upon which you mounted the ladder. When you talk 
of wasting time — things being trivial and not worth 
while — your face becomes so contemptuous and hard 


“LOVE IS THE ONLY CONVENTION" 85 


and engrossed it makes me frightened. I want you 
to have a career; I wouldn’t have married an idle, 
man. I will help you in every way I can; I shan’t ex- 
pect impossible attention — but, Gilbert, I want our 
marriage to mean something to you, a big some- 
thing." 

She paused for breath, and he opened his lips to 
speak, but she signed to him to be silent. 

“Let me finish. I couldn’t bear to think that your 
work was everything to you, and that I — I was merely 
the Hausfrau that bore your name and sat at your table. 
It might be enough for some women, but it wouldn’t be 
enough for me. I warn you that if you ever let me drop 
into the background of life I — I don’t know what 
I might not do. I told you just now that I wasn’t con- 
ventional. Love is the only convention that I own. 
Gilbert, tell me something quite truthfully. If I am 
asking things you can’t give me, let us break off the 
engagement before it is too late. I want" — her voice 
broke a little and her eyes were dimmed with feeling — 
“I want a great deal of love. I’ve never had it, you know, 
and I — I’m so hungry. If I didn’t love you, I shouldn’t 
be talking like this. You know I love you; but you — 
you — Gilbert ’’ 

She had risen from her seat and faced him. She was 
very much in earnest, and her mouth trembled like a 
child’s. Her full, rounded bosoms under the linen and 
lace heaved with her quick heart-beats; her eyes asked 
piteously for love. 

She was very beautiful in that moment. She was 
young and fresh and fragrant, with not a touch of arti- 
fice about her. There was no man alive that would not 
have been touched by her beautiful, pleading eyes. She 
promised so much. The hint of passion in her eyes and 
colouring would have allured any man, and Gilbert was 
by nature a passionate animal. Passion and ambition had 


86 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


warred from his youth, and he had deliberately crushed 
out his warm human instincts. Until he met Claudia 
they had been absolutely under control. Now, as on the 
night he had proposed to her, something swept over him 
like a huge wave and swamped his brain. He only knew 
that he desired this girl and that he had never been 
thwarted in anything he had set his heart upon. He 
did love her; what more could she want? She was 
young and immature ; she did not understand that man s 
feelings may be the deeper for not finding constant ex- 
pression. Later, when they were married, she would 
understand better. 

He forgot they were in the garden of Holme Court — 
in his cooler moments he was desperately afraid of any 
demonstrations of affection — and he sprang to his feet 
and caught her in- his strong arms. He showered kisses 
on her passionate, trembling lips, kisses that sent a wild 
thrill of fearful joy through her, that made the placid, 
sunny garden rock and reel before her eyes, and gave 
her a vivid glimpse of what marriage might mean. And 
no man had ever roused her passions before. This man 
had always had the power to do so since the dinner- 
party when he had held her hand in his and asked if he 
might claim the privileges of old friendship and call her 
Claudia. Something had stirred uneasily then. 

“If — if he has this power over me, if he can rouse the 
woman in me,” she reasoned, “he must be the right man, 
the man I should marry.” It was the simple, true mating 
of Nature. Surely, surely all would be well? 

“You do — you do love me very much, don’t you? I 
am more to you than your work?” 

Her lips had intoxicated him so that he would have 
told her any lie so that she did not elude him. But he 
really thought he was speaking the truth, that there was 
something more than mere sex attraction between them. 

“Yes, yes,” he cried fiercely, with the conquering note 


LOVE IS THE ONLY CONVENTION’’ 87 


of the male; “can’t you feel? — don’t you know? — kiss 
me, kiss me ” 

It was several minutes before they went back to the 
pink abominations and the more sober discussion of 
their wedding. 



# 


* 




PART II 








I 






* • 





/ 










CHAPTER I 


EN ROUTE 

Y ES, Mrs. Currey was “at home,” the butler ad- 
mitted, opening the doors hospitably. 

By the hats and overcoats lying about the spacious 
hall of their flat in Albert Hall Mansions, Carey Image 
knew he was not the only man who had hastened to con- 
gradulate Claudia on her husband’s latest honour. He 
had seen the announcement in the papers that morning. 
Gilbert Currey had been made a K.C. Image imme- 
diately sent a wire to his chambers, and now in person 
was giving himself the pleasure of calling on his “god- 
daughter by marriage,” as he called her. 

The honour was no surprise to anyone; for the last 
year or more rumour had marked him out for this dis- 
tinction. There had even been vague whispers of coming 
glory in the church at his wedding, eighteen months 
before. But now Gilbert had stepped into the vacancy 
left by the death of Howard Barnes, that blunt and 
sarcastic personality who, under a forbidding exterior, 
had hidden the heart of a child. 

Image had seen very little of the pair since their 
marriage, for he who has once roamed in the Orient 
never settles down for long in the dull, tidy lands of the 
West, and though Cary Image had fully intended to 
stop in England, he had broken his resolve a few weeks 
9i 


92 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


after the ceremony. Japan with her slender golden 
fingers had beckoned him and he had gone back to the 
land of almond blossom and universal courtesy. 

The room overlooking the Park which he entered, 
unusually large and lofty for a London flat, seemed 
crowded to his near-sighted eyes. There was an ani- 
mated chatter of voices, for Claudia had already gathered 
around her an amusing and socially attractiye set, who 
talked well and easily, and required but little “managing.” 
Images’s bright eyes peered out through his eye-glasses 
in search of his hostess. 

She soon came towards him with her most hospitable 
and welcoming smile. She was always pleased to see 
him or receive one of his long, descriptive letters. She 
liked him and she liked his life-story. Gilbert generally 
spoke of him a little slightingly. 

“Welcome, godfather; I’m delighted to see you. 
You’ve neglected me shamefully of late. From what 
part of the world have you come?” 

“Last of all from Paris, chcre madante, and this morn- 
ing I saw the announcement in the paper. Gilbert is 
forging ahead. My heartiest congratulations to his 
charming partner. What could one not hope to do with 
such a one!” 

She listened with a conventional smile, but her eyes 
did not warm to any enthusiasm as she said lightly, 
“Thank you, but I have had nothing to do with it. 
Such a partner as I” — there was a slight emphasis on the 
word — “is not entitled to claim any share in the con- 
gratulations.” 

“That is not true,” said Image warmly; “a wife is 
the closest and best partner a man can have; and I am 
sure, if the truth were known, that most of our famous 
men owed much of their success to their wives’ co- 
operation. The partner in the house is often far more 
important than the partner in the office.” 


EN ROUTE 


93 


“Mr. Image, you really are the most refreshing 
person,” said a studiously lazy voice from under an 
enormous mass of lancer plumes at his left. “Isn’t he, 
Claudia? You arc the one faithful appreciative soul in 
a multitude of scoffers howling in the wilderness. You 
almost induce a woman to believe in herself.” 

Image laughed and peered under the feathery erection 
to discover that it was Rhoda Carnegie, a cousin of 
Claudia’s and a woman he had known in Society for 
many years. She was married to an unsuccessful play- 
wright, a “one play” man, who on the strength of a 
singleton had induced her to marry him, to their mutual 
regret. Some people raved about her beauty in super- 
latives, while others merely dubbed her “queer-looking.” 
No one refrained from expressing an opinion about her. 
Her looks and manners were of the arrogant “I-must- 
be-obeyed” order, and she had a reputation for being 
irresistible where she chose to charm. 

“Ah ! Mrs. Carnegie, I could not see who it was. How 
do you do? I am so glad you agree with me.” 

“I don’t in the least,” she responded languidly, through 
half-shut eyes. “It’s only bad women who play a big 
part in men’s lives; that’s why I gave up being good. 
The nice, virtuous, sympathetic wife is — just a super 
most of the time, unnoticed in the wings. And who 
wants to be super?” 

With a careless laugh Claudia moved away to greet a 
new arrival. Rhoda Carnegie watched her with a sort 
of detached, cold-blooded speculation. 

“Claudia was never cut out to be a super. I see signs 
that she will shortly get beyond] that stage, for Gilbert 
gives no one a chance to distinguish himself. He always 
plays lead. But Claudia is not her mother’s daughter 
for nothing,” she drawled, playing with a set of golden 
baubles in her lap. She had but a small income of her 
own and her husband had less, but Rhoda Carnegie was 


94 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


noted for her extravagance. How she got her very 
handsome toilettes was a mystery. At least, perhaps it 
was not an insol vable one to those who knew her well; 
but a mystery is always more decent than a scandal. 

Image listened, rather startled. Then he remembered 
the type of woman to whom he was speaking. It was 
said that she made an art of demolishing reputations in 
as few words as possible. 

“I find her looking exceedingly well,” he said, trying 
to change the subject; “and you, also,” he added 
courteously. 

She looked up at him through her narrow slits of eyes, 
a trick which some men found fascinating. 

“Claudia is the type that goes on getting better-looking 
until she arrives at the age of fifty, then she remains 
handsome and distinguished, especially when her hair 
gets white. It’s a good job our styles don’t clash, or I 
should have to avoid her. But we are quite different. 
She is the charming, sympathetic, give-all type which has 
its admirers, and I — I hold men with a whip, which I 
don’t hesitate to use. You know the play Doormats? 
Well, I am the boot.” She laughed insolently. “Now 
you like the Claudia type. So does Frank Hamilton.” 

“Frank Hamilton? Is that the new artist that ” 

“Yes, Claudia has! made a success of him. She first 
introduced him socially, and they say he is deluged with 
commissions for portraits. He isn’t as strong as Sargent 
or Lavery, and I shouldn’t wonder if he fizzles out, but 
he has a trick of pleasing his sitters and doing very 
graceful work. I believe he is doing a portrait of 
Claudia. That is he over there.” 

She pointed quite openly with her fingers to a young 
man who stood at Claudia’s elbow, holding some cigar- 
ettes. There was something in his very attitude that 
suggested his admiration for his hostess. 

Image saw a tall, broad-shouldered, but loose-jointed 


EN ROUTE 


95 


figure, that spoke more of the studio than the cricket- 
field. His features were good, graceful rather than 
strong, and the whole face, he could see, would be one 
that would please women. His hazel eyes had an ap- 
pealing, rather wistful look in them, and his mouth, if 
rather weak, spoke of a taste for and appreciation of 
beauty and luxury. 

“Claudia should prove a good subject for his brush,” 
said Image, exchanging a nod with a foreign diplomatist 
whom he knew. “I have heard people speak of him 
and predict great things for his future.” 

“Mostly women, I suppose? Women like him and 
men — are not keen about him. But then he’s not keen 
on them. Women fill the bill. A good many of them 
are taking him up, and I don’t think his head can stand 
it. He hates me like poison. He loves to talk about 
himself, and I love and intend to talk about myself. He 
told a dear friend of mine, who never loses an oppor- 
tunity of repeating the nasty things that are said about 
me, that I had the eyes of a Lucretia Borgia.” 

“I have always wondered what colour they really are,” 
said Image, playing up to her obvious lead. 

She smiled. “Continue — to wonder! That is the 
way to make men think about you. An ounce of con- 
jecture is worth a hundredweight of knowledge where 

women are concerned Good gracious, Patricia, is 

there any more of you to unwind? I thought it was a 
boa-constrictor standing on his hind legs. Haven’t you 
stopped growing?” 

“In stature — yes.” She was more of an Amazon than 
ever as she rose from somewhere behind the piano. She 
gripped Image by the hand, and it was a real grip. 

“How about goodness?” queried Rhoda. 

“A non-starter — the handicap frightens me. We are 

not a good family, you know What a lot of people 

and congratulations! I should have thought Gilbert 


96 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


might have got home early to have relieved his wife’s 
blushes, and given himself a sort of holiday treat.” 

“Working as hard as ever?” 

“Harder. I annoyed him the other day by predicting 
a nerve-breakdown — he was playing golf so badly — in a 
couple of years. And that same night at dinner he was 
so dead tired or cross that he hardly said a word, and 
I was left to talk to a boy I’d refused the night before. 
He was sulky and devoted himself to his food. I had a 
beastly time. I told Gilbert that he fancied he was an 
indestructible machine, and that he would find he wasn’t. 
Anyway, he hates dinner-parties, and he begins to show 
it in his manners.” 

“If I were Claudia I should leave him at home,” said 
Rhoda coolly. “I always leave mine at home. I tell 
people not to invite him. A husband is always the 
skeleton at the feast.” 

“Why have a husband at all?” said Pat lightly, who 
knew her Rhoda. 

“It’s a bad habit we shall outgrow in time, like needle- 
work and charity. A husband is like your appendix. 
When you don’t know it’s there, it’s no use, and when 
you do, it’s a nuisance.” 

“Had any tea?” inquired Patricia of Image. 

“No, will you take me and give me some?” They 
walked together to the next room. “Dear me, would 
you mind hobbling on your knees, or providing me with 
stilts? After the miniature women of Japan you take 
my breath away. The modern Englishwoman is really 
a glorious creature.” 

Pat laughed amiably. “I’m a sort of yard-measure, 
aren t I ? It’s a nuisance really, except when you get in a 
crowd. Mother winces every time she sees me, and 
father says my feet are larger than his.” 

But Image looked admiringly at her over the edge of 
his tea-cup. To him this fine young girl, so amazingly 


EN ROUTE 


97 


fresh and healthy, Saxon in colouring, with the limbs 
of an athlete, was most attractive, though he knew she 
made his own lack of inches more conspicuous. 

“I suppose we shall have you getting married soon?” 
he said, beaming on her through his glasses. 

Patricia shrugged her broad shoulders and nibbled at 
a sandwich. “Didn’t you hear Rhoda say that we women 
are getting out of the habit?” 

“She talks a lot of nonsense. Don’t listen to it. You 
are much too fresh and sweet to repeat such horrible 
cynicism.” 

“We are all cynical nowadays. How is it you have 
escaped? How have you managed to keep on believing 
in people and things ?” 

Image answered quite simply and directly. “By loving 
a woman, my dear. To love a woman well keeps the 
core of a man’s heart from withering and getting old. 
My blessings on all your sex, even a Rhoda Carnegie, 
because of her .” 

It was said so naturally that Patricia, who, like all 
young things, recoiled from any display of sentiment, 
could not find any fault with the frankness with which 
he had replied to her question. She became a little 
graver, and whether by accident or the prompting of 
some hidden association of ideas, she glanced up at the 
opposite wall, where hung a portrait of Gilbert, a 
wedding-present from the tenants on his father’s estate. 

“Ah!” she said impulsively, “but why, then, do so 
many marriages go wrong? They seem so right before- 
hand, and then ” She checked herself suddenly and 

shot a sideways look at the little man beside her, like a 
child who fears she has betrayed a cherished secret. But 
though Image’s mind was full of alarm at what he felt 
lay between the lines, he gave no sign that Pat could have 
had any personal implication in her mind. To Pat’s 
relief, Frank Hamilton came in for some tea, and she 


9 8 CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 

seized upon him and made him known to Carey Image. 

“I am delighted to make your acquaintance,” said 
Image, with his old-world formality. “I have heard 
your praises sung, but never found myself in your 
company before. I saw one of your portraits photo- 
graphed for an illustrated paper I found in Japan. I 
understand you are engaged on a portrait of our hostess?” 

Hamilton’s face, which had been full of pleased at- 
tention — Rhoda said he swallowed praise as a baby swal- 
lows milk — clouded a little. Then he replied with an 
engaging air of frankness. 

“To tell you the truth, I have not been successful so 
far. She is a most difficult subject, though a delightful 
one. I have already destroyed one portrait and several 
studies. I think she is tired of my efforts, for I cannot 
persuade her to come to the studio for sittings. And I 
want so much to get a good portrait of her.” 

Image nodded understandingly. “Yes, I should say 
Mrs. Currey would be a difficult subject. Her greatest 
charm is in her animation and spirit, and those qualities 
are always difficult to transfer to canvas. And such 
people always appear different to each of their friends, 
so that a popular success is, I should say, almost im- 
possible. It is before the cow-like, plaster-of-paris 
woman that people throw up their hands and say ‘How 
like!’ ” 

“I see you know something about the art of portrait- 
painting,” said Hamilton, looking pleased. 

“He knows something about everything,” exclaimed 
Pat. “He’s a walking index and encyclopaedia, a Who’s 
Who and a Dictionary of National Biography all com- 
bined.” 

Claudia came up and caught the last words. 

“He’s nothing so dull and uninteresting. It’s a deadly 
insult, godfather. Up, sir, and at Patricia.” 

“How can I?” said Image humorously. “Just look at 


EN ROUTE 


99 

us ! I shall have to get some of the mushroom that Alice 
nibbled before I fight your sister.” 

“Oh ! but the pen is mightier than the sword ! Annihi- 
late her with an epigram; that’s much more deadly, 
because your enemies go round repeating it,” said Claudia 
gaily. Image noticed that Hamilton was feasting his 
eyes on her face and that Claudia seemed rather to avoid 
looking at him. Image received the impression that she 
was used to his homage and did not either actively en- 
courage or resent it. 

“Such bad form,” jeered Pat. “Everyone epigram- 
mates nowadays, and you never have the least idea what 
anyone is talking about. You answer in the same strain, 
and you wonder what on earth you yourself are 
talking about. Anyone can get a reputation for being 
clever, if he’s only vague and wild enough in his con- 
versation.” 

In the general laugh at Patricia the group shifted, and 
Image found himself alone with Claudia. She smiled 
upon him frankly and said with obvious sincerity: 

“It’s so nice to see you again. Don’t run away for 
a while. By and by, I expect another friend back from 
‘furrin parts abroad.’ You remember Colin Paton?” 

“Indeed, yes, and shall be glad to see him again.” 

“So shall I. He’s such an excellent and satisfying 
companion. A ‘collectable’ person, you know. At least,” 
she added, with a slight change of tone, “I used to find 
him so.” 

“That sounds a little like granny, with her ‘When I 
was young, my dear, I used to — * — ’ ” 

Claudia laughed. “Oh well! friends change, even in 
eighteen months,' or else it is that one changes one’s self, 
and friends seem different, judged by different standards. 
Eighteen months may be a day— or an eternity. He went 
away just before our wedding, you know. He has written 
me some most delightful letters at intervals since. He is 


IOO 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


one of the few men who can write something more than 
a telegram.” 

Although he did not appear to be doing so, the keen 
eyes of her companion were scrutinizing her face as she 
talked. In middle-age or its borderland lines tell their 
tale for all to read, massage she ever so assiduously, but 
the changes in a young face are much more subtle and 
difficult to classify. But to a student of physiognomy 
like Carey Image there is sometimes a hint conveyed in 
the softest curve, a suggestion in an apparently sunny 
smile, a warning in the glance of brilliantly youthful eyes, 
such as were now confronting him. 

She was not satisfied, she was not happy. The eyes 
had lost a little of the eager, questioning softness he had 
noticed in the photograph in Gilbert’s room two years 
ago, and the mouth had acquired a little more decisive- 
ness and an inclination toward sarcasm rather than smiles. 
Her whole bearing was much more assured, much more 
the woman of the world, the woman who has eaten of 
the Tree of Knowledge. But Image knew that she had 
not found that fruit altogether sweet. And he was pro- 
foundly sorry. He would have been sorry to have read that 
information on any young man or woman’s face for he 
always wanted the world to be a more joyful place, but he 
particularly liked his young hostess. He saw in Claudia 
the bud that has blossomed but has never been warmed by 
the good red sun, so that the petals at the heart are still 
cold and unopened. And with the kindly wisdom of his 
fifty-four years, Image knew that this spelt danger ahead. 

They chatted on, Claudia questioning him about his 
wanderings abroad, until they were interrupted by one 
of the servants. 

“The master has just rung up, madam, to say that he 
cannot get back this evening in time to accompany you 
out to Hampstead to-night, and will you please make his 
apologies to Mrs. Rivington.” 


EN ROUTE 


IOI 


Claudia listened with a curious compression of her lips, 
like someone who listens with irritation to a too fre- 
quently told tale. Then she made a quick movement 
towards the door. 

“I must speak to him myself. It’s too bad. Mrs. 
Rivington ” 

Then she stopped short, as though second thoughts 
had put a check on her impulse. She came back to Image 
with a resigned shrug of her shoulders. 

“It really is too bad of Gilbert. I spend half my time 
making apologies for him and meekly bearing the ill- 
temper of my hostess whose table has been disarranged.” 
Yet she looked anything but meek as she said it. “I am 
sure people will soon cease to ask us, because it is an- 
noying to have your table upset at the last minute. It 
would try the patience of a hostess in heaven. Mrs. 
Rivington will be furious. She has asked us several times 

and we’ve refused Oh, well ! I must go and telephone 

at once. That’s the only peace-offering and oblation I 
can make.” 

“Let me go, Claud,” said Patricia; “you can’t leave 
your guests, and as/ she is a stranger to me, her wrath 
will pass harmlessly over my head.” 

Claudia accepted the offer with relief. “You’ll find 
the number under Major-General Rivington, Newcombe 
Avenue. I say, Pat, suggest that, as Gilbert can’t come, 
I shall absent myself also.” Hopefully. “Perhaps she’ll 
let me off, as they are Gilbert’s friends rather than mine 
Get me a reprieve if you can. It’s in the wilds of West 
Hampstead, and it’s such a long drive for a bad 
dinner.” 

“Right-o! I’ll be a perfect Machiavelli on the tele- 
phone,” sang out Pat as she departed. 

Dr. Fritz Neeburg, who was sitting near by, looked up 
as Pat went. “Is Gilbert in the habit of working in the 
evening, Mrs Currey?” he asked quietly. 


102 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


“Yes, pretty often, Dr. Neeburg. Dio you approve of 
it? You are his doctor, aren’t you?” 

“Yes, but he hasn’t been to see me for ages, so I 
suppose he keeps pretty fit. All the same, I don’t ap- 
prove of it.” 

“He’s looking very tired,” said Claudia lightly. “Last 
night he did go out with me to a party at the ‘Ritz,’ but 
he was too tired to talk. I am sure the woman who sat 
next to him must be going about saying that the new 
K.C. is the dullest man in London.” 

“I must talk to him,” said Neeburg decidedly. “He’s 
just the sort of a man who has a splendid constitution 
and takes that as an excuse for overwork. When a man 
gets into the habit of thinking of himself as a machine 
Nature has a little way of avenging such slights.” 

“Mrs. Currey, give him a curtain lecture,” said Image. 

Claudia’s lip curled a little and she raised her eyebrows. 
“You can’t curtain-lecture a man who listens in silence 
and then says, like putting in the cork, ‘You don’t under- 
stand. Women never do. A man who wants to make 
his way nowadays must devote himself whole-heartedly 
to his work. The world is strewn with the wreckage of 
men who have relaxed too soon or “taken holidays.” ’ ” 

Patricia has returned. 

“Claudia, I did my best, and even spoke quite plainly; 
but I couldn’t get you off. She was very cross indeed. 
Her voice through the telephone was like that of an 
angry mosquito. She says you , at least, must come, and 
she wants you to bring a substitute. She suggested that 
Mr. Hamilton should come out with you, as she wants 
to make his acquaintance.” 

Claudia spoke coldly. “I can’t ask Mr. Hamilton, or any- 
one, to take Gilbert’s place at a couple of hours’ notice,” 

“No, I told her that, but she seemed to think you 
ought to get her out of the difficulty with the table.” 

She did not tell her sister that Lorna Rivington’s 


EN ROUTE 


103 


rather sharp reply had been, '‘Your sister and he are 
such great friends that I am sure he would do it if she 
asked him.” Instead she whispered in her sister’s ear, 
“Why don’t you ask Mr. Image? He is such a nice, 
obliging dear.” 

Because her feelings were divided between an unrea- 
sonable anger that Mrs. Rivington should make such a 
suggestion and a pleasurable relief that her long drive 
might not be so boresome after all, she seized on the 
alternative suggestion. 

“Mr. Image, you have heard of my dilemma. Would 
you earn the martyr’s crown and take me out to Hamp- 
stead? It’s too bad to ask you at such short notice, 
but ” 

“I should have been only too pleased,” returned Image, 
with a note of sincere regret, “but it is the anniversary 
of my mother’s death, and I always spend the evening 
quite quietly. At any other time, if such a situation 
occurs and I can fill the bill, ring me up and just give 
me time to dress. But you must give me an hour — I 
can’t do it in less.” It was well known that Carey Image 
took an age to attire himself. His neat, precise personal 
habits and leisurely methods of dressing were a constant 
amusement to his friends and a handle to his — very few 
— enemies. 

Several people came up to make their adieux, among 
them Frank Hamilton. 

“Why are you going so soon?” asked Claudia of him, 
for he had lately slipped into the habit of outstaying other 
visitors and waiting for a talk with her. 

“I promised to go to Ealing to-night,” he said with 
a self-pitying sigh. 

“Ealing,” said Claudia vaguely. “Where is that? 
Then it’s no good asking you to come out with me this 
evening? My husband is detained at his chambers and 


104 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


I want a substitute.” She was conscious of a slight 
sense of disappointment, though she had fully made up 
her mind a minute previously not to ask Hamilton. 

“Yes, it is,” he said eagerly. “I can send a wire.” 

“But your engagement ?” 

“Of no importance. I can easily go some other night. 
Old friends.... If you will have me I am entirely at 
your service.” 

He looked into her eyes with his, over which he had 
not troubled to draw the blinds of conventionality. They 
underlined and emphasized the spoken words so that no 
woman could fail to understand. And she felt a pleasing 
sensation of power as she parried his devotion. She did 
not acknowledge it to herself, but she was subtly aware 
that they were both on the brink of deep waters. His 
eyes had spoken words of love for many weeks. His 
very naivete and boyishness had its attraction for her. 
He was just as easy to move as Gilbert was difficult. 
She could colour his thoughts, deflect his mind, bring 
him instantly inside the circle of her mood. He took 
his colour from her like a chameleon, and she did not 
stop to consider whether she alone had this power, or 
if Frank Hamilton were always so influenced by at- 
tractive women. 

“Very well, then,” she said, holding out her hand, 
“You are bidden to take dinner at the house of one 
Major-General Rivington, who served Tier Majesty 
Queen Victoria with great distinction, and is now resting 
on his laurels in the wilds of West Hampstead. Come 
for me at half-past seven.” 


CHAPTER II 


“live ! LIVE ! LIVE !” 

C LAUDIA did not belong to the tribe of unpunctual 
women who stretch the minutes at their will and 
snap derisive fingers at Greenwich. The person who was 
unpunctual in their house was its master. That, how- 
ever, was not due to carelessness, but to his uncertain 
calls. Often it was Claudia who, when the motor was at 
the door, sat down in her cloak and waited for her 
spouse. 

So this evening she was ready in good time. It wanted 
still a few minutes to the half-hour when she cast a last 
critical look at herself in the mirror. 

She was one of those women whom a decollete dress 
shows at their best, and Claudia knew, as she surveyed 
herself, that the result was good. She was as little con- 
ceited as any of her sex — she had too much brain and 
good looks for that ; but she could not fail to see that the 
gown she was wearing for the first time made her look 
strikingly handsome in the best and most individual way. 
It was as though the creator of the gown had loved his 
task, for the deep orange of the rich yet light-weight 
fabric, softened with some exquisite pearl-embroidered 
lace and bordered on the skirt with da r k-hued skunk, 
threw up into relief the darkly-bronze lights in her hair 

105 


io6 CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 

and made the big brown eyes seem softer and deeper 
than ever. A strange Oriental-looking headpiece studded 
with topazes and pearls accentuated the foreign note in 
her appearance, which so impressed strangers that they 
refused to believe that she was entirely English as she 
averred and believed. They said the way she moved 
and wore her dresses was not English, that she could not 
belong to the nation of women who know how to choose 
a frock but not how to wear it. As she stood in front of 
the mirror she was a flat contradiction to the American 
who said that English men were dressed, but the women 
only wore frocks. 

Her looks had improved since her marriage. For some 
unknown reason she scrutinized herself dispassionately 
that night, and she realized that she was infinitely more 
attractive to men than when Gilbert had married her. 
Her figure now was almost as good as her mother's had 
been at her age. Indeed, the tops of her arms and her 
wrists were even prettier. She remembered what an old 
friend of her mother’s had once said to her just before 
her marriage. “You will be much admired, my dear, and 
you will remain naturally good-looking longer than 
your mother has done. But you will never enslave all 
sorts and conditions of men as she did — not that you 
come so far below her in looks, but because hers is the 
beaute du diable, that irresistible magnet to unregenerate 
man. You look too intelligent, too independent, too 
critical. That will pique some here and there, but the 
woman who shows obviously that she likes men and that 
they are necessary to her always finds a return for that 
compliment. Besides, she holds out hopes of reward 
which your type does not. The majority of men are 
childish and lazy: they pick the fruit on the lowest 
branches. You would be too exigeante, you would de- 
mand more than they could give. Your nature is not 
that of a Circe, and men will know it instinctively.” 


'LIVE ! LIVE! LIVE! 1 


107 


Then she had kissed her affectionately and added, “I 
am glad you have no beaute du diable. The world is 
better without it. Take your place in the heart of one 
man, not in the passions of many.” 

Claudia thought over these words as she thoughtfully 
pulled on her gloves. And simultaneously she recalled 
a scene soon after Gilbert’s proposal when she had, as 
to-night, stood in front of the mirror and slowly divesting 
herself of her garments, half shyly, half exultingly, be- 
cause of her love of beauty, had watched the charms of 
her body emerge. She had rejoiced in her own comeliness 
because it was a gift she was bringing to her husband, 
a wedding gift such as few women could present. 

She shrugged her shoulders at the recollection, and her 
face hardened a little. She had learned how evanescent 
a thing is passion with a man of Gilbert’s self-centred, 
violent nature. And the knowledge rankled, so that as 
she looked at herself something which was not the indi- 
vidual, Claudia Currey, the wife of the new K.C., but 
Women Unsatisfied and Disappointed, crept into her eyes 
and mouth, and which, for the first time, gave her some 
fleeting resemblance to her mother. Was her mother’s 
old friend quite right? Was there no touch of the 
devil’s beauty in her looks now? Perhaps she would 
have changed her mind if she could have seen the woman 
looking broodingly at her own reflection, a smouldering 
defiance in her eyes, an unformed challenge on her lips. 
That it was not the real Claudia that looked so, the 
passionate-hearted, idealistic woman who walked away 
with her head held high, the elder woman would have 
known ; but she would have had to acknowledge regret- 
fully that Claudia was evolving. 

Then had she been present she would have seen the 
little hardness disappear as morning mist before the sun, 
as a familiar padding sound became evident along the 
carpet. 


108 CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 

Only Billie, only a dog, but so unchangeably devoted, 
so unceasingly responsive. In a sudden burst of thwarted 
affection she caught him up, heedless of her costly em- 
broideries, and hugged his fat bundle of soft brown fur. 
At least this creature loved her, she was his whole world 
and 

“Mr. Hamilton, madam.” 

Billie found himself gently deposited on the floor, 
where he stood wagging his tail with pleasure at the 
caress, yet eyeing her beseechingly, as he always did 
when she was going out, as if to say, “Are you really 
going to leave me again ?” 

“Tell Mr. Hamilton that I am quite ready. Is the fur 
rug in the motor ? It will be cold coming home to-night.” 

She refastened a corsage spray that had been loosened, 
and picked up an Eastern-looking garment of dull golds 
and browns, with a chiffon and skunk muff that 
matched. Outside it was freezing, and the trees in the 
Park were lightly powdered with snow. Billie stood on 
his short stumpy hind legs — a great effort by reason of 
his plumpness — and besought her to stay with him. 
Claudia laughed gently, and stooping down, took the little 
useless, dangling paws in her hand. 

“Billie, you fool, don’t you know how ridiculous it is* 
to love anyone so much? Better far to cut your heart 
up into lots of little pieces and distribute them than give 
it away in a lump. Don’t you know that?” 

No, Billie didn’t know that at all. 

“Well, it is. Listen to my words of wisdom and ponder 
them in your doggy understanding. It hurts, Billie boy, 
to love very much, it hurts dreadfully, though you pre- 
tend, except to a little dog who keeps your counsel, that 
it doesn’t. Well, I shall never do it again, and it’s all 
over, Billie ; it’s all over, both the dream and the awaken- 
ing Go to your basket and sleep the sleep of the 

faithful.” 


'LIVE! LIVE! LIVE!’ 


109 


They drove some way in silence. Inside the motor it 
was cosy and warm, in pleasant contrast to the streets, 
for the snow that lingered still on the trees had turned 
into slush on the pavements. The pedestrians looked 
uncomfortable and nipped by the east wind which was 
blowing, and the mud on the roads gleamed evilly in the 
light of the street lamps. Here and there they passed 
dirty heaps of snow in sheltered corners. Like the lace 
petticoats of a fine lady once pure and spotless, it was 
revolting now in its soiled, bedraggled state. People 
waiting in the wind at street corners for buses looked 
enviously at the motor as they passed. The padded 
luxury in which the two were enveloped, the dim frosted 
light, the narcissi in the silver holder diffusing a faint 
perfume, were very intime and aloof from the discomfort 
abroad. 

They had left Baker Street behind them before Claudia 
came out of her reverie and realized that she was not 
being sociable. She looked sideways at her companion, 
to find him steadily regarding her. 

“Are you wondering when I would be polite and talk ?” 
she said, with a smile. 

“No I was making a mental picture of you. I 

think — I think I can paint you now. I want to paint you 
in that velvet cloak — what colour do you call it? — it is 
like copper in the firelight — with the sable just touching 
your throat at one side just as it is now and falling off 
the other shoulder. Will you let me? Oh! I want my 
brushes in my hand now.” His eyes suddenly blazed 
with the inspiration of the moment as they devoured 
her. Quickly she drew the folds of the cloak doser 
around her neck. She felt as though a scorching wind 
had swept over her, a sirocco of passion came from him 
to her. She shrank back a little, yet even as she instinc- 
tively did so she wondered why. Her husband flagrantly 
neglected her, most of her friends had consoled them- 


no 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


selves for their husbands’ shortcomings, and had not 
she almost determined to seek the love which she craved 
outside her home? She met his eyes, and she was half 
attracted, half repelled by their light. She liked him, she 
felt his magnetism drawing her, and yet something which 
she could not quite understand bobbed quickly up to the 
surface of her mind and surveyed them both with a 
certain contempt. So she was a little cruel in her reply 
to his enthusiasm. 

“You were not very successful last time. I hope you 
destroyed that picture.” 

“Yes, I slashed it to pieces in the middle of the night,” 
he said sombrely. 

Claudia laughed lightly. 

“M’hy in the middle of the night? Why were you 
moved to be so melodramatic?” She often teased him 
and made him angry by saying that he ought to have 
been an actor. For Frank Hamilton had a torch of the 
woman in him which clothed in drama many things that 
he did and said. Whether he was conscious of these 
effects or whether they came naturally to his character 
Claudia could never determine. 

“I had been dreaming of you,” he said simply. “I 
had seen you standing at the foot of my bed, looking 
down on me, and I knew exactly how I should have 
painted you. So I sprang out of bed and hacked the 
beastly canvas to pieces. Afterwards I made a rough 
charcoal sketch of you from memory. To-night you look 
as you did when you stood at the foot of my bed.” The 
eyes of the man were audacious, but the words were 
spoken very quietly. 

“I beg to remark that my frock is brand new,” rejoined 
Claudia flippantly. “I have never worn it even in dream- 
land. It is hard to be deprived of a positively first ap- 
pearance when frocks are so ruinously expensive.” 

“You looked wonderful that night,” he went on 


“LIVE! LIVE! LIVE !" 


hi 


dreamily. “I have always seen you since — as you might 
look." 

“As I might look," she repeated, her curiosity getting 
the better of her discretion. “What do you mean by 
that?" 

He was looking out at the glistening streets, at the 
flakes of snow beginning to fall again, and he made no 
reply. This piqued her the more* and she repeated her 
question. 

“I suppose you will be angry with me," he said slowly. 
“Women always resent these things. I don’t know why. 
... As you might look if you were not so proud and 
if your brain did not rule your heart, if you would let 
yourself be the woman — you were meant to be." 

Claudia wanted to say “How ridiculous!" but she 
couldn’t. The motor was passing a large burial ground, 
the tombstones showing by the railings like dreary grey 
ghosts in the darkness, shut in with the wet, dripping 
trees, and looking hungrily at life passing a few yards 
away. Underneath those tombstones were hearts and 
brains in silent decay that had once been men and women. 
Claudia watched them flit by and she was silent now. 
She wondered if those tombstones had a message for 
her. Were not the dead saying “Live ! live ! live ! Death 
started out to meet as soon as you were born." 

The man beside her commenced to quote softly, almost 
in a whisper : 

“Always I know how little severs me 
From mine heart’s country, that is yet so far; 

And I must lean and long across a bar 
That half a word would shatter utterly. 

“Ah! might it be, that just by touch of hand 
Or speaking silence, shall the barrier fall; 

And she shall pass, with no vain words at all, 

But droop into mine arms and understand.” 


112 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


The motor came to a standstill, and Claudia shook 
herself free from the spell of his words. There are few 
men who can quote poetry without divesting it of all 
lyrical charm and naturalness, but Frank Hamilton 
knew or had acquired the art. Then, as though 
the quotation were some nursery jingle, his voice 
altered, and he said, “Heigh ho ! is this the house ? What 
is my hostess like? Hints, please. I meant to have 
asked you before.” 

“Much younger than her husband, but not as young as 
she would like to be,” whispered Claudia hurriedly. “If 
you flatter her judiciously you may get a portrait out 
of her. She is dying to have it painted.” 

They boy was opening the door, but he caught her arm 
with every appearance of sudden anger, and made her 
stop and look at him. 

“Do you think I only like to come out with you because 
I may get commissions for portraits from your friends?” 
he said heatedly. “Answer me, please.” 

Claudia looked at the boy and motioned him to silence. 
“Don’t be foolish, I was only jesting. You musn’t be 

so sensitive ” Then, as they walked up the steps 

together she said smilingly, “If you say silly things like 
that, you shan’t come out with me again. But, seriously, 
Mrs. Rivington has been wanting to meet you for a long 
time. I think she fancies that if she gets to know you 
the portrait will come cheaper. But she is well able to 
pay, so don’t take any notice when she hints at her 
poverty of purse. She is a woman who would try and 
get a discount off her seat in heaven.” 

“You zvill make time to come to the studio one day 
quite soon, won’t you ?” he pleaded. 

“I’ll see,” she said, as the door opened before them. 

The maid came forward and slipped off her cloak. As 
she waited and pulled up her gloves, Claudia propounded 
a question to herself. 


‘LIVE! LIVE! LIVE !” 


n 3 

“He seems to care so much — I wonder if he is really 
sincere.” 

When a woman stands and asks that question, the 
man has scored his first point. But Claudia thought the 
tricks were still all in her hand. 


CHAPTER III 


“ICH LIEBE DICH” 


O her surprise Claudia found that the assembled 



A company included her father and mother-in-law. 
Mrs. Rivington’s set was absolutely antipodal to Lady 
Currey’s, but as the General was an old friend of Sir 
John’s Lady Currey occasionally and stiffly countenanced 
the wife. Since her marriage, the intercourse between 
Claudia and Gilbert’s family had been of the most for- 
mal description, for Lady Currey found nothing to like 
in Claudia, and her daughter-in-law realized that she 
was taken on sufferance. 

“So I shall not see my dear son to-night,” said the elder 
woman, as she presented a frosty cheek for Claudia to 
kiss. “It is a disappointment.” She looked with side- 
ways disapproval at Claudia’s toilette. “As showy as 
her mother,” was her mental comment. 

“You knew he was expected? He telephoned me at 
the last minute that he was detained at his chambers.’’ 

Lady Currey’s eyebrows were of the fixture kind that 
cannot really be raised, only crumpled. She crumpled 
them now. 

“Ah! I remember when I was young no woman 
thought of going out without her husband. If John did 
not care to go to a function I stayed away. When he 


1 14 


ICH LIEBE DICH’ 


had that fall from his horse I never took a meal outside 
the house for five months.” 

Claudia would have explained to anyone else that her 
hostess had insisted on her presence, and thus have 
soothed down old-fashioned prejudices, but Lady Cur- 
rey’s tone annoyed her. 

“Oh !” she said carelessly, “women are neither treated 
as children nor inmates of a harem nowadays. We have 
progressed, you know. Women are freeing themselves. 
Did you never revolt in your heart of hearts?” 

“My pleasure was always to do as my husband 
wished.” 

“What is that about me?” said Sir John, coming up 
to them. “How do you do, Claudia. I am sorry Gilbert 
is not able to come. But it shows the right spirit. I 
inculcated that into him when he was a boy.” 

He looked at Claudia fixedly under his heavy, bushy 
eyebrows. They always annoyed Claudia, who longed to 
tell him to brush them. She knew! the meaning of that 
look. It was to remind her that she had so far failed to 
provide him with a grandson. 

“Then the responsibility rests with you,” said Claudia 
quietly. 

“What do you mean? What responsibility? We are 
proud of him.” 

“ ‘All work and no play ’ ” Claudia began to 

quote, when he interrupted her. 

“Pooh! that was invented by some lazy rogue, I bet. 
Work never yet hurt any man. It’s play — late hours, too 
rich food and too much drink — that plays old Harry 
with the constitution. I impressed that on him early in 
life. Marian, don’t fidget with your fan” — she carried 
an old-fashioned fan of black ostrich feathers— -“it 
worries me. The husband to work and the wife to look 
after the house and the children, that is the proper divi- 
sion. You leave Gilbert alone, and don’t worry him to 
come to silly dinner-parties. I’m getting on in years, and 


n6 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


it doesn’t matter about me. He’s carrying the name to 
the country. The youngest K.C.— it’s a thing to he proud 
of in a husband, Claudia.” He fixed his rather prominent 
cold grey eyes on her as she lightly shrugged her 
shoulders. 

But her hostess fluttered up to her rescue. Mrs. Riv- 
ington never walked like other people, she always floated 
or fluttered. 

“Mrs. Currey, may I present to you Mr. Littleton, who 
will take you in to dinner. It was too bad of your hus- 
band to desert us. But he is impervious to the charms 
of wbmen, isn't he?” 

“Obviously not,” said the tall, almost gaunt, fair-haired 
man who bowed before her. Claudia knew by the accent 
that he was an American. “Your husband is the new 
K. C., is he not? King’s Counsel — it has a dignified but 
archaic sound to our ears.” 

“Don’t,” cried Mrs. Rivington shrilly, gauging in ten 
seconds the probable cost of Claudia’s dress. “I’m an 
Imperialist, and I wave flags and put up bunting and do 
all sorts of loyal things, and the red on a Union Jack 
doesn’t agree with my complexion, so I really am quite 
genuine and what-you-may-call-it. Don’t run down the 
King to me.” She fluttered off, her eyes roving restlessly 
over the couples she was pairing. 

Left together, Claudia and the American smiled. He 
was the type of American that suggests the mettlesome 
racehorse, lean-flanked, long-limbed, not a spare ounce of 
flesh on his bones, relying on training and determination 
to carry him through the race. He was unusually fair, 
with a suggestion that he might have had a Viking an- 
cestor, yet there was nothing colourless about him. 
Claudia wondered what he might be, millionaire, finan- 
cier, hoping to become one, railroad magnate, what? She 
was sure he was a worker, it was written in every line of 
him. 

“I am certain women like our hostess are really and 


ICH LIEBE DICH’ 


truly the props of your empire,” he said gravely. “The 
sacrifice of a complexion, what can compare with it? 
Sons, lands, money — what can touch it?” 

They both laughed as they moved in to dinner. As 
Claudia had predicted, Mrs. Rivington was spreading her- 
self over Frank Hamilton. Littleton caught the ex- 
change of glances between him and his partner, and 
made a mental note. He was by way of studying Eng- 
lishwomen. 

“Are you here for long?” asked Claudia, unfolding 
her serviette. 

“Maybe I’ll be here for six months or so. I know you 
are wondering what is my particular branch of money- 
making. I’m a publisher — Littleton, Robins and Co., and 
w'e’re starting a branch over here as an experiment. I 
want to stay for a bit and direct it.” 

Her interest was aroused. Everything to do with 
books had a fascination for her ever since Colin Paton 
had taught her to love them. And to her a publisher was 
not a merchant, a mere purveyor of books to the public, 
but something dedicated to the service of art. The 
glamour of the books was around the man who produced 
them. She knew of his firm as one that specialized in art 
books and good belles lettres. She had several books 
with his imprint on her shelves. So the talk flowed on 
smoothly after this happy opening, neither having to 
consider what they should say next to while away the 
dinner-hour. Claudia found herself more interested than 
she had been for a long time at a dinner-table. He had 
not the delicate illuminating touch of Colin Paton, he 
lacked the subtleties of his imagination and sound clas- 
sical scholarship, but he knew all the books of the day 
and was appreciative of the good in them. 

Towards the end of dinner he looked at her with a 
whimsical twinkle in his blue eyes and said, “I wonder 
if you will be amused or annoyed if I tell you something. 
I am not sure how an Englishwoman takes such things. 


ii8 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


Personally I think the photograph of a beautiful woman 
should be public property, but I realize she may not.” 

Claudia turned a wondering face upon him. 

“Your photograph, in the shape of a coloured book- 
cover, has gone into every part of the United States, 
although” — with an appraisingly admiring glance — “the 
artist did not get your colouring correctly. He made 
your hair dead black and your skin and colouring too 
pink and commonplace.” 

“But hov^ ” 

“It was like this. We were publishing a new book of 
Henry Roxton Vanderling’s — you know him — and we 
wanted an attractive paper cover with a portrait of the 
heroine. I remember it was a very hot day when we 
were discussing the matter, and I told the artist I wanted 
something specially taking. I generally have the English 
illustrated papers sent out to me, and he was listlessly 
turning over the pages, when he struck your photograph. 
With a cry of 'Here it is — bully!’ he nabbed it. A few 
days later he brought me a coloured sketch suggested by 
your portrait. I have the original sketch framed in my 
office. Are you offended?” 

Claudia laughed. It struck her as being humorous and 
something unusual in the way of introductions. And she 
was pleasantly aware, as any woman would be, of the 
compliment conveyed. 

“I knew you the minute you came into the room, al- 
though I had forgotten your name. When you came in 
I said to myself, ‘Vanderling’s “Woman of the East!’” 
I felt somehow we were already acquainted.” 

“Well, I think I ought to have a copy of the book.” 
said Claudia promptly. 

“Sure. I’ll send you one to-morrow. I’m delighted 
you are amused, not angry. I took a big chance in telling 
you, but I had too.” 

“You thought I’d find out and you’d better put the 
thing nicely, with the varnished side uppermost?” 


“ICH LIEBE DICH’ 


He gave a hearty laugh. “Well, you’ve guessed most 
of the truth. Mrs. Rivington spotted the resemblance, 
and as I come from the same country as George Wash- 
ington, I didn’t tell a lie.” 

“No, it’s no good telling a lie when it is sure to be 
found out. Only a good lie justifies the liar.” 

Mrs. Rivington was collecting eyes by this time, and 
Claudia rose. In the drawing-room, an apartment so 
crowded with furniture and bric-a-brac of various periods 
that it suggested a wtell-dusted shop in Wardour Street, 
her hostess seized on her. 

“I was glad to see you getting on so well with Mr. 
Littleton. He wanted to meet you. He told you about 
the ‘Woman of the East’? Quite romantic, I think. He 
ought to fall in love with you/’ 

“To serve as an advertisement is hardly romantic, 
surely? I rank with the monkey advertising soap and 
a starved cat extolling a certain milk.” 

“Oh! how funny you are — and so cold and critical! 
Now I should be thrilled. But you’re not a bit romantic, 
anyone can see that. Oh! Claudia, is it true about your 
brother ?” 

“My brother? What is it?” She wished Mrs. Riv- 
ington’s eyes would not wander so restlessly over her 
person. 

“Why don’t you know ? They say he has married ‘The 
Girlie Girl!’” 

“Who on earth is ‘The Girlie Girl’?” laughed Claudia, 
sipping her liqueur. “It sounds like a cross between a 
barrel organ and a seaside pier.” 

“Yes, doesn’t it? But don’t you know her — haven’t 
you seen her picture on the boardings ? She was playing 
at the Pavilion last week. I don’t like her style myself, 
but I suppose most men would think her pretty. Not, of 
course, that you can tell. Paint goes such a long way, 
doesn’t it?” 

“A music-hall artiste? What an absurd rumour!” 


120 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


“Are you sure it’s a rumour ?” said her hostess,’ with a 
gleam of malice. “These girls are always entrapping rich 
young men, and I heard as a positive fact that the wed- 
ding took place at the registrar’s three weeks ago.” 

“Nonsense. Jack amuses himself, but he wouldn’t do 
a thing like that. He’s an awful fool, but not such a 
fool as that.” 

"Well,” replied Mrs. Rivington, dabbing at her nose 
with a powder-puff ; “I hope it’s not true, for your sake. 
Fancy having a sister who calls herself ‘The Girlie Girl’ ! 
Too awful to contemplate, isn’t it? Thank goodness, 
I haven’t any children. I shouldn’t survive such a thing. 
I don’t believe in marrying out of your own class.” As 
the General had obviously married beneath him — it was 
rumoured that she had been employed as reception-clerk 
at an hotel — her scruples were understandable. “She 
figures on the hoardings in a sort of vivandiere costume, 
and the men seem to admire her no end. But men always 
do admire such creatures. But really, Claudia, I am 
afraid it is true. My sewing-maid knows one of her maids, 
and this girl told Bertha in confidence that she went to 
the registrar’s with them, only nobody is to know at 
present. She heard all about the wedding-breakfast and 
the gallons of champagne and the flowiers. These people 
live on champgne, I believe.” 

Claudia, though a little startled, hardly credited the 
story. At one time she had been afraid that Jack would 
make some horrible mesalliance, but as the years had gone 
on and he had left the impressionable, callow stage behind 
him, she had ceased to feel any alarm. Jack was an ass, 
but he was a conventional ass. Once she hinted her 
fears to him, but he had taken the suggestion as such a 
deadly insult that she believed he realized the foolishness 
of such things. She remembered that he had proudly 
informed her that in the circle of “little ladies” he was 
nicknamed “The Knowing Kard,” and he gave her to 
understand that the nickname was not undeserved. Every 


“ICH LIEBE DICH’ 


121 


now and then the family asked him when he was going 
to settle down and espouse some well-born, inexperienced 
girl, but Jack invariably said airly that there was lots of 
time, and that a really nice wife would hamper a fellow 
horribly, and a third party was always such a nuisance. 
It was exceedingly unlikely that there Was any founda- 
tion for Mrs. Rivington’s piece of gossip. Claudia dis- 
missed the idea with a laugh. 

“Jack has a large heart, if somewhat shallow,” she 
said lightly. “I don’t think I’ll worry about his wedding- 
present.” 

“Strange fascination these creatures have for men,” 
commented her hostess, glancing round to see that the 
other women were occupied. “Never can understand it 
myself. How a man can fall in love with powder — 
several inches thick — and grease paint beats me. But 
men are so easily taken in, aren’t they ? and of course we 
should be too proud to use their arts.” 

Claudia’s attention was wandering and her eyes were 
caught by a woman of about thirty-five, rather badly 
dressed, who did not seem to belong to the same galcre as 
the other women. She was sitting apart, looking shy and 
a little uncomfortable. No one seemed to be paying any 
attention to her. Claudia wondered who she could be. 
She had fine, expressive eyes and a sensitive mouth, and 
she could have been much better-looking had she been 
more fashionably dressed. Mrs. Rivington noticed the 
direction of her eyes. 

“I do wish Mrs. Milton would look smarter,” she said 
rather irritably. “I hate rechauffed dresses, don’t you? 
But she’s got a beautiful voice, and I thought she would 
amuse us after dinner. She and her husband are as poor 
as church mice. She can’t get any engagements. Partly 
her dowdy dresses, I should think.” 

“Do you mean you have engaged her for the evening?” 
asked Claudia. 

“Heavens, no ! I give her a dinner in return for some 


122 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


music. She wants to get known. It’s really doing her 
a kindness. I must go and talk to your mother-in-law 
now. She hates me, but I can see everyone else is tired 
of her. Where are you going?” 

“I am going to talk to Mrs. Milton.” Claudia could 
not stand the sight of the solitary figure any longer, and 
she longed to tell her hostess what she thought of the 
practice of getting artistes to give their services for noth- 
ing. Colin Paton had opened her eyes to the injustice. 
She was filled with shame for the set which she repre- 
sented, and she gave Mrs. Milton her most cordial smile 
— it could be very charming — as she sat down beside her. 

“Mrs. Rivington tells me that you sing beautifully,” 
she said. I am looking forward to hearing you. One 
so seldom hears music nowadays after dinner. It is 
usually that tiresome bridge.” 

The woman flushed with pleasure ; she had a fine skin 
that coloured easily. They were the first friendly words 
that had been addressed to her that evening, for she had 
been taken in to dinner by a deaf old major. 

“How nice of you,” she said involuntarily. She had 
been admiring Claudia all the evening. “I do hope I am 
in good voice, but my little boy has an attack of bron- 
chitis and I was up with him most of the night. And 
when you are a little tired ” 

Claudia nodded sympathetically. “I know. It takes all 
the fullness and timbre out of the voice, doesn’t it ? Must 
you nurse your little boy yourself?” She noticed that the 
singer’s voice was infinitely more refined than that of her 
hostess, which had an unmistakable Cockney twang. 

“Yes, we can’t afford a nurse,” said Mrs. Milton 
simply. “You see, my husband lost all his money two 
years ago. That’s why I come out to sing. When we 
were married I gave it up to please him, but now I want 
to help keep the house going.” The kind and real interest 
in Claudia’s eyes warmed her to unwonted loquacity. 

“And you have a little boy ?” 


ICH LIEBE DICH’ 


123 


“I have three children, two boys and a girl. They 
are such darlings. ,, Her eyes lit up and the whole face 
was transformed to something almost beautiful in its 
brooding motherliness. “The boys are just like my hus- 
band, so plucky and good-tempered. Oh ! they are worth 
fighting for. We say that every night when we tip-toe 
into their room and see they are all right for the night. 
Children make all the difference, don’t they?” 

“I — I suppose they do.” Claudia could visualize the 
picture of the man and woman, tired and anxious, look- 
ing with love and hope at their sleeping children and 
feeling that they made all the difference. She looked 
across at the chattering groups scattered about the room, 
most of the women, like her hostess, childless or having 
only one child. Scraps of their conversation punctuated 
Mrs. Milton’s words. “I assure you, Kitty, she lost 
eighty pounds in two rubbers, and everyone knows she 
can’t afford it. Who pays her debts? I should like to 
know, and....” “Her bill, my dear, was outrageous. 
She charged me twenty-two guineas for that little muslin 

frock, and then ” “ — entirely new method of treating 

the complexion. No creams, only massage with. ...” 

“You have none yet?” said Mrs. Milton gently. 

“No but a husband counts also, doesn’t he?” 

“Oh, yes! Rob is the best husband in the world. 
Perhaps I love the boys so much because they are like 
him. He hates my having to sing again. You know how 
a man feels when his wife has to work, and he hoped to 
give me an easy time. But he’s working in the City all 
day, and I’d like to do something too. Oh, yes ! Rob is 
splendid. I should think he did count.” A woman’s 
voice broke in shrilly: “I simply adore my dogs. 
Wouldn’t be parted from them. Don’t enjoy my meals 
unless they are with me and 

Claudia and Mrs. Milton looked at one another, and the 
mother-woman smiled. “Isn’t it a pity?” she said. 

“Tell me where you live,” responded Claudia. “I shall 


124 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


want someone to sing at a little dinner I am giving soon. 
I will not encourage these dull bridge evenings. Will you 
sing for me?. . . . Ah! here come the men.” 

Frank Hamilton came straight across to her and com- 
menced to talk, apparently not noticing her companion, 
who drew a little away, as though feeling she was not 
wanted any longer. But Claudia interrupted Hamilton's 
rather ardent words and said, ‘‘Mrs. Milton, was Mr. 
Hamilton introduced to you?” He was forced to turn 
a little, and Claudia noticed that Mrs. Milton bowed with 
a little embarrassment. 

“I think Mr. Hamilton has forgotten me,” she replied 
quietly. “We were acquainted in our youth.” 

“Were you?” Claudia looked at him in surprise, for 
she had been watching him all the evening out of the 
corner of her eyes, while apparently oblivious of his 
existence — a womanish trick — and she had not seen him 
speak to her. When Hamilton spoke it was rather stiffly. 

“I did not see you before, Mrs. Milton.” It was a 
stupid fib, and Claudia noted it. “How do you do? 
Y-s. in our salad days we used to warble duets together, 
didn’t we?” The geniality of the last words was rather 
forced. Claudia divined that he did not want those days 
recalled. The obvious reason momentarily occurred to 
her, but a glance at Mrs. Milton dissipated it. Also, she 
was several years older than Hamilton. Hamilton had 
once confessed that he could never fall in love with a 
plain woman, and Margaret Milton would never be beau- 
tiful except to the man who loved her. 

“I had hoped I should sit next to you,” he said in an 
undertone. Mrs. Milton had moved away to the piano. 
“It was too bad, and I couldn’t even see you properly 
because of that beastly erection in the middle.” 

“Oh! you were quite happy. You seemed to get on 
quite well with your hostess. Who was that dark-com- 
plexioned lady next to you, with some truly wonderful 
diamonds?” 


“ICH LIEBE DICH” 125 

“Mrs. Jacobs, the wife of a South African millionaire. 
She told me that herself and that she was a widow !” 

“Ha! ha! Do we want to sit for a dusky portrait ?” 

“Don’t..!..” He tried to look very hurt, but it was 
not so successful as earlier in the evening. The dinner 
had been quite good and the champagne better. Hamil- 
ton’s eyes were a little too bright to look very grieved. 

“Did she not give you a commission?” 

“Well, what if she did? Why do you always sneer at 
me. And it’s your portrait I want to paint. What do I 
care for her commission, even if it is a lucrative one. 
Parchment and diamonds — ugh ! Tell me, when will you 
come again to the studio ?” 

“Hush, Mrs. Milton is going to sing. You must remain 
absolutely quiet/’ 

The first notes of Brahms’ “ Sapphische Ode” throbbed 
through the inharmonious room. Margaret Milton had 
the deep, pure contralto that makes the listener think of 
all things tender and true and intimate, the things that no 
man or woman says, even to his twin soul, but sometimes 
in the watches of the night whispers to the shadows. And 
the shadows enfold them and carry them away into the 
Hinterland beyond the setting of the sun, with the poign- 
ant tears and the imperishable kisses, the pain and the 
joy and the passion of mortals. 

The timbre of the voice was singularly sympathetic and 
emotional, and Claudia instantly fell under its enchant- 
ment. Somehow! she felt that the woman was singing to 
her, guiding her, pleading with her. She sang several 
times, and then, after “Still wie die Nacht” by Claudia’s 
request, she began to sing a song that always made 
Claudia’s heart throb and ache intolerably. Her throat 
swelled and burned on this night, and the tears waited 
on her eyelids. She forgot the indifferent, politely bored 
company, as she listened to the exquisite strains of that 
wonderful love-song, “Ich liehe dich .” 

And this plain, dowdy woman knew the real meaning 


126 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


of that song. Only a woman who knew the joy and the 
pain of love could have sung it as she sang it. The cry 
of love rang through the room like a clear clarion call. 
Even the people who had wanted to play bridge felt it 
and looked vaguely uncomfortable. For a moment they 
were lured from their money-bags. The call was so clear 
that it penetrated the cotton-wool of everyday life. 

Claudia found herself looking at the shabby woman at 
the piano with fierce envy. Once, she, Claudia, had 
thought she knew, once her heart had triumphantly 
chanted “Ich liebe dick, ich liebe dich” like an eternal 
refrain. Once? Was it all quite over? Something stirred 
within her, something touched her cold heart like the 
rosy finger of hope. Once ! Perhaps she and Gilbert had 
only drifted apart, perhaps she had not made due allow- 
ances for the inarticulate, more prosaic, unemotional na- 
ture of man. She had loved him very much — she did 
love him still, if only 

There was a bowl of red roses at her elbow. She did 
not notice them, but perhaps it was their perfume that 
mounted to her brain and brought back the remem- 
brance just then of the garden at Wargrave, when she had 
questioned Gilbert and asked him if he had really loved 

her He had promised she should always come first 

she was right to demand that .... he had said that 

he was not good at pretty speeches and that she must 
take some things for granted .... that men were different 
from women. . . . Her blood tingled in her veins as she 
felt in imagination again the fierce pressure of his arms 
around her, his kisses on her lips. Surely he had really 
loved her then, she reiterated to herself. She knew more 
now than she did then. She had been initiated into the 
mysteries of life and death. She had begun to realize 
how large a part mere animal passion plays in a man’s 
life, how men take love (so called) where they find it, 
how “the worldly hopes men set their hearts upon” cheat 
women oi their just dues, and leave them bankrupt. But 


“ICH LIEBE DICH : 


127 


with the passionate echo of “Ich liebe dich” in her ears, 
she felt she could not write that horrible word “finis” to 
this page of her life. Perhaps she had been too exigeante, 
impatient ; perhaps she could be more tactful now. Eigh- 
teen months! Why, it must be that she had not had 
time to master the game of love. Their tastes were sc 
different, perhaps that was partly the trouble. She re- 
membered how he had talked her out of going to the en- 
chanted Palace at Como and substituted a golfing honey- 
moon in Scotland. But he had been very charming to 
her — humoring all her fancies, his own having been satis- 
fied — he had made her feel that she had only to command 
and he would always obey love’s call. It had been an 
intoxication. Was it all behind her? Was love behind 
her for the rest of her life? No, she could not do with- 
out love. She had always wanted it, she had tasted its 
sweets, no, no, no! Gilbert must love her again as he 
used to. He could not have entirely changed in eighteen 
months. He was at home probably. Perhaps he was 
thinking of her, wanting her to come in 

She rose abruptly to her feet, filled with an uncon- 
trollable blind desire for action, to pursue this elusive 
thing which seemed to have escaped from her hands. 

But Hamilton’s eyes fixed on her in surprise at her 
abrupt rising, drew her back to earth and the faded 
Aubusson carpet on which she stood. He, too, had been 
moved by the music. His artistic pulses, so easily set 
beating, had responded to the call also. But his thoughts 
had been of the rather capricious woman by his side, the 
woman who so far had never listened to his words of 
love. 

After his first surprise at her action, he came to the 
flattering conclusion that the music had warmed her heart 
towards him. An easy favourite with women, he did not 
doubt that she cared for him. He had always gained 
what he wanted, though he had never before aimed at 
such big game as Claudia Currey. But he was rapidly 


128 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


becoming ramous, he was sought after and flattered. 
Women begged him to paint them on his own terms. 
He was not what he had been. Mrs. Milton knew what 
he had been. Perhaps the game was not so difficult as 
he had begun to fear. He looked at her meaningly, with 
a rising sense of power, but she did not return his glance. 
That might be shyness. 

He heard her make her adieux to their hostess, who 
protested at her going so early. 

“It is only eleven o’clock I suppose you are 

going on somewhere else, you and” — markedly — “Mr. 
Hamilton.” 

But her mother-in-law came to her rescue. “Claudia is 
quite right. I daresay Gilbert wants her. I know John 
is always fidgety when I am away from him.” 

Claudia did not laugh as she would have done half an 
hour previously. Perhaps Gilbert was wanting her. She 
wanted him to want her. 

“Mr. Hamilton, you need not see me home. I can ” 

“Of course I am coming. Good-bye, Mrs. Rivington, 
it has been a delightful evening. Yes, I won’t forget 
about the portrait, Mrs. Jacobs.” 

He followed Claudia out into the hall, followed by Mrs. 
Milton with her roll of music. 

“Don’t you know I should come?” he whispered, not 
noticing her. 

The maid helped Claudia on with her cloak. Mrs. 
Milton was tucking herself — the maid, with the strange 
knowledge of the servants’ hall, did not trouble to help 
her — into a businesslike garment, long and warm. Claudia 
heard her make some inquiry of one of the maids, and 
caught the words “last ’bus.” 

Frank came up to her at that moment, the dawning 
light of possession in his eyes, a subtle change in his 
manner. 

“Are you ready, madam?” He smiled to himself as he 
foresaw the long drive in the darkness, side by side in 


ICH LIEBE DICH 5 


129 


the pleasant intimate warmth of the motor. . . . her hand 
would fall naturally into his and then 

“Mrs. Milton, can I not give you a lift in the motor?” 
Her clear voice cut short his dreams. “Where do you 
live? Maida Vale. Oh ! we can go that way quite easily. 
Yes, I should like to take you home quickly to the bron- 
chitisy child.” 

Only one of the maids, who giggled over it and 
mimicked him directly the hall-door was shut, saw the 
sudden scowl on Hamilton’s brow, for Claudia Was bent 
on saving the tired woman an uncomfortable cold journey 
in the ’bus and Mrs. Milton was full of gratitude at the 
unexpected thoughtfulness. 

“My ! wasn’t that a sell for him,” said the pert parlour- 
maid. “Thought he’d have a nice, cosy time with her 
all alone. But she wasn’t taking any. Always does a 
man good to take him down a peg or two !” 


CHAPTER IV 


“not satisfied” 


S Claudia was waiting for the lift in their block of 



flats half an hour later Fritz Neeburg came running 
down the stairs. 

“Ah ! Mrs. Currey, you’re back early from your dinner- 
party.’* Claudia was a little impatient of Fritz Neeburg 
because of a certain German stolidity and lack of imagina- 
tion, but he was what she called “a learned beast/’ and a 
very loyal and kindly friend to both of them. He had 
lately given up practising as a medical man and devoted 
himself to research work in connection with nervous 
troubles affecting the brain. 

“Dinner-parties have such a family resemblance, 
haven’t they? I was bored.” 

He nodded, noting the brilliancy of her eyes and won- 
dering what had caused the excitement in their depths. 
She looked more highly strung than usual to-night, but it 
seemed a happy excitement. It might have been the 
anticipative joy of a woman going to her lover. 

“Gilbert and I had some dinner — rather late — and we’ve 
been yarning ever since.” 

Claudia raised her eyebrows. “I thought Gilbert was 
detained at his chambers.” 

Neeburg caught a glint in her eyes that made him ap- 
prehensive that he had said the wrong thing. “Oh!” he 
added hastily, “it was nearly nine before he rang me up. 
As it happened I was also late and hadn’t fed.” 

Claudia’s lips curved into a smile, a smile that puzzled 


130 


“NOT SATISFIED’ 


him. It was a smile, the lips had even parted, showing 
her rather small white teeth, but he felt that it was the 
wrong kind of smile. It seemed to have an edge to it 
somehow. He wondered if he had put his foot in it as 
he watched her ascend in the lift. Gilbert had told him 
that he had “got out of a stupid dinner-party. .. .a 
woman likes those sort of things. .. .her province, you 
know. ...” Fritz Neeburg was a bachelor and knew 
little of women, either by experience or temperament, 
but he realized that it was not a real smile of genuine 
amusement. He felt vaguely that it was like the 
early bloom of a peach which masks the hidden acidity. 
Then he recalled that Claudia lately had not been half so 
gay and spontaneously happy as in the early months of 
her marriage. 

Gilbert came out of the study at the sound of her 
entrance. She saw at once that he was in a good temper 
and unusually genial. He was in the humor to stay up a 
little longer and chat, for he had just worsted Fritz in an 
argument over the Home Rule Bill, and Gilbert always 
liked to hold him own, even on his own hearthrug. 

“Hallo, Claudia ! you’re back then. There’s a nice fire 
in here. Pretty cold outside, isn’t it?” 

She followed him into the library without any reply, 
but he did not notice her silence, nor did he look at her, 
except casually. He was a man who would buy a beau- 
tiful picture, look admiringly at it once, hang it on his 
walls and then never notice it again. 

A big leather chair invited her to sit down, but she 
stood by the oaken mantelpiece. Gilbert had commenced 
to put away several reference books that he had got out 
to convince Neeburg, for Gilbert was always great on 
figures and statistics. 

“Tough fighter, old Fritz, but of course you can’t ex- 
pect a German, even if he has lived over here all his life, 
to understand English politics. Of course, he knows his 
own subjects and ” 


132 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


“Gilbert, you and Neeburg dined together to-night.” 

“Yes,” he said, faintly surprised. “Did you see him?” 
For the moment he had forgotten his broken engagement 
with the Rivingtons. He had a wonderful habit, which 
had helped to make him what he was, of settling a point 
and then automatically forgetting all about it. Then 
his wife’s toilette caught his eye and he remembered. 
Where had Claudia been? Oh, yes! “It would have 
been an awful rush to have got back in time to dress 
and go out to Hampstead, and I didn’t feel a bit like it. 
How is the old General?” 

His back was towards her, busy with the bookcase. 
She looked at it coldly, critically. 

“Couldn’t you have made a little effort in order that 
I shouldn’t have had to go all that way alone?” She 
herself made a great one to speak calmly and pleasantly. 
The echoes of Ich liebe dich were still faintly in her ears, 
and if he would only turn and take her in his arms, and 
say, “Look, old girl, I’m sorry. I know I’m a social 
shirker, but I forgot you would have to go alone,” she 
was ready to return the pressure of his arms. Women 
can exist on very little love, very few caresses from the 
man they care for, and Claudia was in the mood to make 
every allowance for him. 

He answered her rather mechanically, trying to find 
the correct place for the volume. 

“Oh, well! you like dinner-parties, and it’s not so far 
in the motor. It’s not the day of the horse-brougham. . . . 
You are my social shop-window, and’’ — with blunt 
humour — “it’s very nicely dressed. I wonder where that 
book of Burke’s has got to? Besides I wanted to get 
hold of Fritz, I wanted his opinion on a case.” 

“You particularly asked me to accept this invitation 
as the General is an old friend of your family.” 

“Well, it does just as well if you go,” he said imper- 
turbably, mixing himself a whiskey and soda. “They 
understand how busy I am.” 


NOT SATISFIED’ 


133 


“Suppose — I don’t understand.” Her lips were com- 
pressed until the soft curves had disappeared, and the 
determination and independence of the chin were em- 
phasized. He looked up from the syphon in surprise at 
her tone. 

“Were they awfully annoyed at my not turning up? 
I suppose Mrs. Rivington scratched a little.” 

“I am not concerned with the Rivingtons. I am talk- 
ing of myself, of my feelings on the subject.” She was 
beginning to speak a little more quickly now. The cold, 
abstracted look in his eyes stung her. He could not even 
realize that she was hurt and angry. “I am not here 
merely as your social shop-window, as you call it. I 
am not here merely as your hausfrau, to order your food 
and entertain and visit your friends. That is the way 
in which you have lately been regarding me .... Do you 
realize how often I have to go out in the evening alone?” 

“I’m sorry, but my work — * — ” 

“You could have got away quite easily to-night. I’m 
not a fool, Gilbert, don’t underrate my intelligence. If 
you had said to me in the first place, ‘Tell the Rivingtons 
we are engaged for that day,’ and then spent the evening 
quietly at home with me, I should have been perfectly 
content. But I will not be used.” 

“My dear girl — * — ” 

Perhaps there is nothing an angry woman dislikes 
more at certain stages of an argument than that preface. 

“Couldn’t you even have come out to fetch me?” she 
went on. “You see hardly anything of me, and we might 
have had a good talk on the way home. Don’t you want 
to see anything of me?” 

“Why of course. Come, Claudia, do be reasonable. 
We are having a talk now, and it might be a pleasant one, 
if you are not so fiery. You are always getting so ex- 
cited over things.” 

“I came home early because ” She remembered 

the impulse that had made her leave the company, and 


134 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


she laughed. Love? Was love this cold, indifferent, 
methodical thing? Was she to be content with this tanta- 
lizing imitation? Her eyes flashed defiantly and she 
flung back her head. Picking up a cigarette out of the 
box, she sat down and lighted it. Her excitement had 
suddenly evaporated in that laugh like an exhaust-valve 
relieving steam pressure. It was the rather critical re- 
pressed woman of the world who next spoke to him. 

“We don’t see much of one another nowadays, do we?” 
she said, looking at him through the smoke. 

“Later on I shall have more time, I hope, he replied, 
placidly accepting her cessation of unreasonableness. He 
never worried over women’s moods. If you left them 
alone, he argued, they evaporated. 

“Later on, we shall both be middle-aged,” said Claudia 
calmly. “Later on the gods will jeer at us and ask us 
what we have done with our youth. They always ask 
that question sooner or later of everyone. They always 
bring you to account, and sometimes the balance is on one 
side and sometimes on the other. I wonder how you 
and I will be able to answer that question?’’ 

“Oh ! I’m not going to get old yet,” he smiled. “Any- 
one would think we were on the verge of decrepitude.” 

“I am not sure you have ever been young.” She 
leaned her chin on her hand and looked at him. Some- 
how the face of Frank Hamilton ranged itself beside it 
to-night. A weaker face, yes, but it seemed to her that 
there was real youth in the passionate eyes, real sentiment 
in his deep voice, a joie de vivre in his whole being which 
called to her like the gleam of snow to the Arctic ex- 
plorer. Was it the strong men of the world who made 
women happy? Was not the strong man always self- 
centered, egoistic, taking all and giving nothing? Should 
a woman ask for too much strength in the man she 
loved ? 

Gilbert listened to her indulgently. It was just one of 
Claudia’s odd moods. His marriage had been quite sue- 


“NOT SATISFIED” 


135 


cessful, and therefore so had hers. He knew that she 
was very popular and that invitations to their house were 
eagerly coveted. After what his mother said, he would 
have hated that the marriage should have been a failure, 
and he had accepted as fuel to his pride his mother’s 
remark after a dinner-party which they had given and at 
which Claudia had entertained the Prime Minister, the 
Lord Chief Justice and other well-known people. “Claudia 
makes an excellent hostess. After all, there is something 
to be said for your marriage. The Iversons have always 
had plenty of savoir faire.” It was said a little grudg- 
ingly, for Lady Currey still did not like Cluadia. There 
was nothing to disapprove of so far, but she was always 
waiting for something. 

“I am not sure that you ever were young,” repeated 
Claudia. “I don’t believe you ever had a freakish, irre- 
sponsible mood. I remember Pat saying once, on a beau- 
tiful spring morning, that it made her feel as if she’d 
like to turn somersaults on the grass and yell like a wild 
Indian every time she came right side up! You never 
felt like that, did you ?” 

“But I’m neither a wild Indian nor a dog,” said Gil- 
bert, trying to stifle a yawn. He had felt stimulated 
while arguing with Neeburg, and had forgotten he was 
tired. Now the yawns were threatening to descend upon 
him and he began to feel drowsy. But a glance at Claudia 
showed him that she was wide awake. She had what 
her brother called “her brainy look.” 

He had resolutely tried to ignore Claudia’s changing 
and complex moods from the very beginning of their 
married life. On their honeymoon he had stopped her 
speculations and questions with kisses. His treatment 
was clearly right. Claudia had been far less imaginative 
and introspective in her talk lately. This idea of trying 
to understand women was all nonsense. He had uncon- 
sciously shaped his treatment of women on some words 
of his father’s a propos of some news he once brought 


136 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


him about a neighbour’s wife who had eloped with an- 
other man on the plea that her husband did not “under- 
stand her.” “He’s well rid of her,” said his father con- 
temptuously. “There’s nothing to understand in women. 
Don’t be misled by any of this modern novelist’s jargon, 
my boy. Women always have suffered from the megrims, 
and they always will. In one century they are called the 
‘vapours,’ in another ‘moods/ but they are megrims all 
the same, caused by physical weakness and disabilities 
and lack of self-control. More harm has been done by 
humouring women and taking their megrims seriously 
than will ever be known. It’s responsible for this ‘Votes 
for Women’ movement, and, mark my words, if women 
are not kept in their proper place, megrims may ruin the 
nation !” 

“After all,” said Gilbert, “it depends on what you mean 
by youth. I suppose the dictionary would define it as 
the state of being young, but it is conceivable that one 
might improve on that. I was once in the state of being 
young, you know, because my mother has some of my 
first teeth !” 

Claudia pondered a minute, twisting an old French 
marquise ring round and round her little finger. “I 
should think,” she said slowly, “it’s the ability to notice 
and enjoy all the pleasures of the wayside. Yes, that’s 
somewhere near it. The man who enjoys life is the one 
who saunters along, admiring the flowers in the hedge- 
rows, sniffing the different perfumes, watching the insects 
and the birds, filling his lungs with the good fresh air. The 
man who doesn’t know how to enjoy life is the one who 
rushes across country in the fastest touring car he can 
buy.” 

Gilbert rose and looked at the clock. “Lots of weeds 
and undesirable tramps by the wayside,” he responded 
dryly. 

“Weeds and tramps are part of life. To enjoy every 
minute of life you must waste a few.” 


“NOT SATISFIED” 


137 


“Well, I wish I had a chance to waste some. . . . Bed, 
Claudia. I am sure no one would ever think you missed 
your beauty-sleep, but I fear you often do.” He turned 
towards the door, but she recalled him. 

“Gilbert!” 

“Yes?” 

“Are we always going to live like this? This is the 
first opportunity we have had for a talk for— oh ! weeks ! 
When we have people here, you always fall into bed the 
moment the last guest goes ; when we do go out together 
we just have a few minutes in the car on the way home. 

Gilbert, I ” Having got so far she hesitated and cast 

a quick, appealing look at him. He came a little nearer. 

“Is there anything you particularly want to say to 
me?” he said, uncomprehending, but noticing the con- 
vulsive rise and fall of her white bosom under its laces 
and pearls. What had upset her? 

“Gilbert, other men find me attractive other men 

like my company .... you realize that, don’t you ?” she 
said, with unexpected directness. 

He -raised his eyebrows, and then they met in a frown. 
He found her words in bad taste, which was not usual 
with Claudia. 

“I quite appreciate that my wife is admired by 
other ” 

“Yes, but I am your wife. Somehow — to-night — I 
feel I must speak plainly and tell you — that I am not satis- 
fied with the crumbs that fall from the legislative table. 
Once, before we were married, I warned you that such 
scraps would not satisfy me. I want more. Any woman, 
unless she were as cold as a stone and had only married 
you for her own ends, would want more. Why, we are 
hardly friends even! Oh, I don’t want to know the 
details of your work, but you never discuss anything 
With me. I am as lonely as I was before I married you 

I thought I was entering a land of plenty. You 

made me think so. I knew I should never be content 


138 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


with a conventional marriage.” She caught her breath 
for a moment. “Yes, I remember my very words to 
you — ‘Love is the only convention that I own/ Have 

you forgotten? If you value me and my love, think 

over what I have said and look where we have drifted, 
Gilbert. I daresay you haven’t noticed — that is the 
worst part of it all — that we have drifted at all. Per- 
haps you think that we stand where we did eighteen 

months ago We none of us ever stand still even for a 

single day and there’s a pretty strong current that 
catches restless, unsatisfied women nowadays. And — I 
am not satisfied, I am not satisfied ” 

With a sudden abrupt movement, so foreign to her that 
it showed how much she had been keeping herself in 
leash, she went out and closed the door behind her. 

He stood where she had left him, a look of annoyed 
surprise upon his face. It was a real shock to him, and 
a disagreeable one. He preferred to think that Claudia 
was quite satisfied with their marriage. She had never 
before complained of any specific thing. She did not 
now. He told himself irritably that he wished she would, 
it would make it so much easier to give her what she 
wanted. The worst of women was that they were so 
vague in their demands and their complaints. Men can 
usually put down in black and white what they want; 
women never. He loved her, she was his wife, she 
shared his honour and the brilliant prospects for the 
future. What more did she want ? Why did women talk 
in such an exaggerated way nowadays? Surely it was 
her fault if she were not satisfied? He had never pre- 
tended to any Paolo or Romeo-like passion ; he had given 
her instead a much more useful commodity in the twen- 
tieth century — the good, honest heart of a real man, 
instead of the mawkish sentiment of an unbusiness-like 
poet. He had never run after other women as did so 
many of the men he knew. Of course, Claudia might say 
he had not had the time to do so, which was true. But 


NOT SATISFIED’ 


139 


probably he could have made some time if he had wanted 
to amuse himself. It was true that he had not wanted 
to make love to any woman. After he had indulged his 
natural passions in marrying Claudia, women had dropped 
into the background again. Even the desultory emotions 
which used to stir within him had not agitated him. He 
could have lived a virtuous bachelor life with the greatest 
of ease. 

Claudia had dropped her gloves on the hearthrug and 
left a soft, cloudy chiffon scarf on the leathern armchair. 
With the sense of tidiness and order that characterized 
him, he picked them up. 

Did women know what they wanted nowadays? Was 
it not the signs of the mental inflammation of the 
times? 

Perhaps it was the scent from the scarf — Claudia 
used some delicate, haunting perfume — that caused an 
idea to strike him, a very mundane musculine idea, but 
still it had the grace of at least a faint touch of imagina- 
tion. The perfume revived memories.... There was 
that night at Fyvie Castle on their honeymoon, when they 
had watched the moon shining on the loch from her win- 
dow, he remembered the sweetness of her body nestling 
against him on the old window-seat. .. .once he had 
awakened with that perfume in his nostrils and found her 
arms around his neck.... It had been playtime then, 
but women were only children masquerading as grown- 
ups. Had he found the key to her queer speech? Was 
that what she had meant? Yes, in that way he had been 
very neglectful the last few months and married women 
had a right .... He recalled that she had sometimes 
looked rather wistfully at him when he kissed her good- 
night outside her door Oh, yes ! that was the trouble. 

How stupid of him! 

He stopped to put away a few papers and then, ten 
minutes later, he knocked at the door which divided 
their rooms. 


140 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


He waited, but there was no answer. He gently tried 
the handle. The door was locked. 

He listened intently and he thought he heard a sound 
like a sob strangled in a pillow. 

“Claudia, Claudia, may I come in?” 

Now there was no sound at all. 

“Claudia, I want to talk to you. Open the door.” 

But still no movement in the room or any sign that 
she had heard him, though he felt sure she must have 
done so. 

Then, with a shrug of his shoulders and a compression 
of his lips that made him very like his father, he turned 
away. 

Two minutes later he was fast asleep. His father was 
right, was his last reflection. There was no good trying 
to understand women. 


CHAPTER V 


THE GIRLIE GIRL 


HE next morning, when Claudia opened her eyes 



A after a bad and restless night, she knew by John- 
son’s voice that some agitation was in the air. 

“Madam, 1 am sorry to wake you so early, but your 
mother has been ringing you up on the telephone. She 
insisted on my waking you.” 

For a moment Claudia’s dark eyes, still heavy with 
sleep, stared at her vaguely. Then she sat up in bed with 
a look of alarm. “What time is it? Half-past eight, 
and mother wants to speak to me. Why, she is never 
wakened until ten ! What can have happened ?” 

Something in Johnson’s expression caught Claudia’s 
eye and made her certain that she knew something. 

“Johnson, is anything amiss? Is Pat ill or had an 
accident?” Pat was the sort of wild, careless person 
one always associates with possible accidents. 

“No, madam, I — I should think it must be about Mr. 
Jack. It’s all in the papers this morning. I thought 
you couldn’t know anything about it.’’ 


141 


142 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


“Jack’s had an accident, then?” said Claudia, paling, 
for in her way she was fond of him. “Is it very bad — 
tell me quick, Johnson.” 

“Madam,” gasped the woman, “it’s not exactly an 
accident— I mean— oh! madam, let your mother tell 
you.” 

Suddenly Claudia remembered Mrs. Rivington’s words 
of the previous evening. It was true, then. That could 
be the only thing which would give Jack prominence in 
the papers. 

“All right, Johnson, don’t look so frightened. I think 
I know. He’s got married, hasn’t he? All right, ring 
up my mother and put me through. And fetch me a 
newspaper, quick. Do that first, before you ring up. 
Do you understand ?” 

“It’s here, madam ; I thought perhaps ” 

Claudia tore it open with shaking fingers, and Billie 
rubbed his head against her arm in vain. A few minutes 
ago she would have said, “What did it matter what a 
young fool like Jack did?” Now she realized that she 
was furiously angry, ridiculously angry. If he had 
married this awful woman — Ah ! 

peer’s grandson marries a music-hall artiste. 

The words stared hideously at her as they would stare 
at several thousand people who opened that page — 
friends, enemies, acquaintances. The blood sang in her 
ears as she tried to read the paragraph. She could hear 
their friends shouting with laughter, she could see the 
look of contempt on the faces of the people who mattered, 
she could hear the course chuckles, the resurrected stories 
Ugh! disgusting. 

The newspaper, a popular halfpenny, recounted in well- 
worn journalistic phrases how The Girlie Girl of music- 
hall fame last night confessed that she had been married 
for several weeks to Captain Jack Iverson of the Blues, a 


THE GIRLIE GIRL 


M3 

grandson of Lord Creagh and the son of the famous 
society beauty whose picture, “Circe,” wns known all 
over Europe. “The bridegroom,” said the paper, “has for 
some years been considered one of the richest and best- 
looking young bachelors in Mayfair, and its dovecots will 
be fluttered by the news of his marriage. It appears that 
they were married before a registrar and the utmost se- 
crecy was observed, but truth will out, and last night Miss 
Fay Morris, better known as The Girlie Girl, was the 
recipient of much congratulation. Our reporter visited 
her between the first and second houses and found her 
dressing-room crowded with flowers. She is very popular 
in the profession, and has made her successes in America, 
South Africa and at home. She is very pretty, with a 
petite, perfect figure, and she possesses a considerable 
store of vitality and go, so much that she is billed as ‘The 
whirlwind dancer and mimic.’ Captain Iverson’s sister 
is the wife of the new K.C., Gilbert Currey, and is con- 
sidered one of the most fascinating hostesses in 
Society.” 

Johnson hardly recognized her as she looked up from 
the paper. It was just as bad as bad could be. The 
Girlie Girl ! The Girlie Girl ! Could anything be more 
vulgar and inane ! 

“You are though now,” said the maid, pushing the 
table that held the telephone nearer to the bedside. 
Claudia motioned her to leave the room. 

Mrs. Iverson’s voice was almost lost in a kind of weird 
moan with which she punctuated her sentences. 

“I knew something awful was going to happen,” she 
said. “I was warned by the spirits three times in suc- 
cession they told me that disaster was coming closer 

and closer. It’s too awful, isn’t it? Of course, we can’t 
know her. Jack must be mad. I’ve sent for him to 
come to me at once, not, of course, that we can do any- 
thing now. I couldn’t sleep and I heard two of the ser- 
vants talking about it while they did the stairs. He must 


144 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


divorce her or something. Fancy marrying a w’oman like 
that. Do you realize it, Claudia, I’m the mother-in-law 
of The Girlie Girl — I — I ! My God, it’s incredible. Why, 
musical comedy would have been better. Why didn’t 
you stop it? Your father says he washes his hands of 
him, but that doesn’t prevent her being my daughter-in- 
law. If only the spirits had been more explicit in their 

warnings but spirits are always so vague I was 

afraid it meant that my masseur was going to die or my 
maid was going to leave me.... I’m prostrate.... 
What’s the good of Jules massaging me when I’ve got 
troubles like this? Do get dressed and come round — it’s 
as bad as having a funeral in the house, only, thank good- 
ness, one doesn’t have to go into black.” 

Claudia put back the receiver with a click, and Billie 
gave a bark to remind her that she had not greeted him 
kindly. She gave him an absent caress, her dark eyes, 
full of thought, looking out over his soft little head. How 
furious Gilbert would be ! The Girlie Girl a sister-in-law 
of the rising young barrister ! She had long ago divined 
his father’s and mother’s feeling against her own family, 
partly shared by Gilbert. Lady Currey would be de- 
lighted! A sarcastic smile curved her lips as Johnson 
came in again. 

Johnson’s eyes were glittering with excitement, for 
servants love a good, rousing scandal. 

In her excitement she called her mistress by her old 
name. “Miss Claudia, Mr. Jack is downstairs and wants 
to see you at once. I told him you were in bed and 
hadn’t had your breakfast ” 

There was a knock on the door, followed by her 
brother’s voice. 

“Claudia, let me come in. I must speak to you.” 

Johnson looked at her, and for a moment Claudia’s 
hands clenched themselves in helpless rage at the folly 
of her brother. “Let him come in,” she said shortly, 
“and send me up my breakfast!” 


THE GIRLIE GIRL 


145 


Johnson opened the door and Jack came in, his face 
rather pitable in its weakness and worry. He looked like 
a puppy that has lost its way. He was as smartly dressed 
and as well-groomed in person as usual — nothing short of 
an earthquake would have made him regardless of his 
attire, and then one felt he would have been resurrected 
trying to put his tie straight — but his usual placid expres- 
sion of serene content with himself and that state of life 
into which Providence had pleased to call him was gone. 

He looked at Claudia rather helplessly and yet appeal- 
ingly, and some of the hardness of her glance melted. 
After all, it was the same silly old good-natured Jack. 

“Johnson, wait a minute. Have you had some break- 
fast?” 

“Yes — no — you never can get anything to eat at the 
flat.... I should like some coffee, Claudia. I think it 
might pull me together if it was strong and very hot.” 

He came to the bedside and sat down rather heavily 
in a pink-cushioned chair. Mechanically he found his 
cigarette-case and opened it. 

“Oh ! I beg your pardon, old girl. I forgot it was your 
bedroom. It’s something to do You know all about it !” 

She pointed without speaking to the paper flung in 
disgrace to the foot of the bed. 

“Oh, well! you know, then. Everybody knows. She 
let it out last night. Women never can keep secrets.” 

“Was she going to be your wife* — secretly — for the 
rest of your life?” said Claudia sarcastically. 

“Eh? Oh, well! I didn’t want people to know yet. 
She’s a clinking good sort, and don’t think” — with an 
expression like the puppy on the scent again— “that I 
regret marrying her. No, by Jove, I don’t. But she 
might have let me break the thing to— to everyone.” 

“You can’t break things like that,” said Claudia 
sharply, “they break themselves. It’s like dropping an 
egg_it’s smash. Jack, I do believe this dog has got 
more sense than you have. I heard a rumour about this 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


146 

marriage last night, and I laughed at it. I had a certain 
amount of respect for your — social intelligence. Brains 
you never did have, but you always had good manners. 
I’m utterly disgusted with you, and I never want to see 
you — or your wife — again.” 

“You haven’t seen her yet,” said Jack quickly. “So 
you can’t judge things.” 

“I have no intention of seeing her,” said Claudia, her 
lips tightly compressed, her eyes flashing with anger. 
“Do you expect me to take The Girlie Girl to my bosom 
and swear I love her as a sister ?” 

“Look here, Claudia, say what you like about me — oh, 
yes ! I know it was a fool thing to do, although I don’t 

regret it ” He passed his hand over his brow wearily, 

for his small brain, so little used, was unequalled to the 
strain. “I say again” — obstinately — “I don’t regret, and 
I’m awful fond of her — she’s a nut, I can’t tell you — but 
of course I can see how you and mother and everyone 
look at it. I never would have believed I could have 
done it — I’ve always jeered at other fellows who married 
beneath them — but I was just crazy about her. You’ll 
like her, Claudia,” he bent forward with pathetic eager- 
ness, his hand again seeking his cigarette-case, “she’s not 
a bit like anyone else. All the men are in love with her, 
and she could have married most anyone she wanted.” 

Claudia’s expression was so indicative of her feelings 
that he stopped. At that moment Johnson brought in the 
breakfast-tray. Jack looked at it with relief. It was some- 
thing to do if only to eat and drink, and the cup of tea 
Polly had given him that morning had been “wash.” 

He noticed that Claudia’s hand shook as she started 
to pour out the coffee, and at imminent danger to the 
tray and his own clothes, he caught hold of her hand. 

“Give us your paw, Claud. I say, old girl, don’t you 
go against me. I came to you at once; you’ve always 
been such a good chap, though you do scold me.” With 
rough affection he put his arm round her and kissed her. 


THE GIRLIE GIRL 


147 


“I said to myself, ‘Old Claudia will stand by me. She 
isn’t a conventional duffer like the others. She’ll see 
Fay’s fascination, and, after all, a fellow’s only got one 
life to live, and why can’t I do as I like?’ I’ve heard 
you say things like that time and time again, and Gilbert’s 
contradicted you. I daresay I’ve done a silly thing, but 
if I don’t regret it, what is it to anyone else? Only 
don’t you round on me. It makes me feel as if I’d gone 
to my bath and there wasn’t any water.” 

Claudia had to laugh, at first a little uncertainly, and 
then with wild abandon. Jack’s similes, when he em- 
ployed any, were always so absurd. 

“Jack, get away, the point of your collar is puncturing 

my cheek Oh! you silly ass, how could you do it? 

Now you’re upsetting the tray, and I love those pink 
cushions.” 

“Fay like everything pale blue, but then, she’s got 
blue eyes. Such blue eyes! They’re ripping, Claud. I 
must give Billy some sugar — we’ll pretend it’s off the 
wedding-cake. Claudie, next to you — at least, no, because 
you’re so different, there isn’t any next-to — but you and 
she are the most ripping women I’ve ever meet. I say, 
I am glad of this coffee. I’m going to see that Fay has 
some decent servants. Polly’s a sketch, a fair sketch.” 

He was so frankly and boyishly relieved that she had 
“made it up.” After all, he didn’t mind very much 
about his father and mother — luckily his income was 
his own — but Claudia did matter. And he was honestly 
sure that Claudia would be fond of Fay when she knew 
her. 

After a while Claudia put the question : “She is going 
to give up her profession, of course?” 

His brow clouded. “Well, I want her to, and I’ve 
talked till my throat has got dry, but she says she’s got 
‘contracts,’ whatever that means, for the next six years. 
And she’s so proud of them, too. Funny set of people, 
you know. What there is to be proud of in having to 


1 48 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


work for six years more I can’t for the life of me see. 
But she tells everyone.” 

“I suppose it means that she’s a success and has been 
secured by certain theatres,” said Claudia. 

“Eh? Oh, yes! I suppose it does mean that. Oh, yes! 
I see. That’s why she’s proud. What a nut you are, 
Claudia, you are the brainy one of the family, right 
enough. How’s Gilbert?” 

She gave a slight shrug of her shoulders under the 
silken matinee. 

“Have you had a row over me?” he said quickly. 
“Of course, you couldn’t explain a thing like this to 
Gilbert.” 

“You include him among the conventional duffers?” 
said his sister, with an enigmatic smile, patting Billie 
with one hand. 

“Er — well — of course, he’si ” 

“You’re quite right, my dear brother. He’s a con- 
ventional old duffer.” Then, with an abrupt change of 
key: “But, after all, as you say, we’ve only got one 
life and we must each decide for ourselves how we will 
live it. Live, love and be merry, for to-morrow we grow 
old !” 

“By Jove, old girl, that’s the right spirit, and I really 
am awfully fond of Fay. And she’s gone on me, too.” 

“You’ve been awfully in love with other girls before,” 
said Claudia running her fingers through her soft, 
loosened hair, “but you haven’t married them. How 
did it happen?” 

He evidently concentrated on the subject for a moment 
before he answered: 

“Blest if I quite know myself. I didn’t mean anything 
of the kind at first, because I knew that she ... I don’t 
know whether she put it in my head or I put it in hers.” 

“You’re a very rich man,” said his sister softly. 

“Yes, I know; and I daresay she wouldn’t have 


THE GIRLIE GIRL 


149 


married me if I hadn’t had a good deal of oof.” Catching 
his sister’s look of surprise-, he said quickly, “Oh! I 
don’t kid myself it was love, pure love. I don’t believe 
there is any such thing. And she’s as cute as they make 
them, only — she can bq just the other way sometimes, 
too. She’ll interest you, Claudia, she really will. I bet 
you haven’t met anything like her before. You’ll find 
her a bit of a puzzle all right. But she’s got plenty of 
money of her own; she earns quite a big salary, she tells 
me, and though she lives in a sloppy sort of Bohemian 
way, there’s always plenty to it and no end of fluff and 
frills. Got plenty of jewellery, too, that — that admirers 
have given her. I want to replace it all one day.” 

“She has had plenty of admirers, then?” 

He coloured a little and looked away. “Oh, well! 
hang it all, who am I that I should hang out a blue 
ribbon? — no, that’s teetotal, isn’t it? — Well, you know 
what I mean. But we’re both going to stick to one an- 
other in future.” 

“But you haven’t told me yet why you wanted to 
marry her?” 

He ruminatively twisted his small fair moustache. 
“Well, I don’t know. She didn’t feel for me the way 
she felt for the other fellows, she said. Of course, 
they’re an awful set, though I haven’t told her so yet. 
And” — he got up and fidgeted with a photograph-frame, 
it contained a portrait of Colin Paton — “she’s a queer 
little person, Fay. She’s twenty-two and she says — she 
says it’s time she became a mother, and she wants — the 
father — to be a gentleman. I daresay she’d — she’d have 
had it the other way — things like that don’t matter so 
much to them — only, of course, I couldn’t. You see 
that, don’t you, old girl?” 

Claudia’s voice was very tender and affectionate as 
she answered : 

“Run away now, old boy, and let me get up. Yes, 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


150 

you couldn’t, of course, and I’ll do my best to smooth 
things over. Scribble down her address on that memo- 
randum-tablet, will you?” 

He came over to her and gave her a bear-like hug. 

“You’re a brick, Claudia. I always knew it. . . . I 
say, you haven’t been looking the thing lately. Are you 
quite happy yourself?” 

She unloosened a strand of hair from his coat-button 
with a little wince. 

“Well, at any rate I married for love. And is any- 
body quite happy? I guess life is rather like those bottles 
of mixed sweets we used to have in the nursery. They 
were all called 'sweets/ but some of them were very 
sharp and acid, do you remember? We used to first 
dig out the sugary ones, but nurse afterwards insisted 
that we should eat the acid ones. Life is a thing of 
spots and streaks, Jack ; that’s all there is to it.” 


CHAPTER VI 


UNE CHAMBRE A LOUER 



HERE is some uncatalogued sense in man which 


JL seems immediately aware when a woman is at a 
loose end, when there is une chambre a louer in her 
heart. There is a story told of Don Juan which relates 
how the famous gallant was unsuccessful with three 
women in his life; one was a middle-class woman who 
adored her husband, the second was a nun who kept 
true to her vows, and the third was a cocotte who, 

having lived the “gay life” for many years and “ 

grown old in the service of pleasure, love no longer 
made any appeal.” The woman who is estranged from 
her husband, who no longer cares for him, has no need 
to proclaim the tidings upon the house-tops. Men are 
subtly and quickly aware that her heart is free, and con- 
sider not only tha tshe is fair game for any arrows they 
may care to shoot, but that they are offering her some- 
thing she cannot live without and that she is sure to ac- 
cept from someone sooner or later. One often hears 
a man speak of an unhappy wife as that “poor little 
woman,” but he never doubts that he can make her happy 
where her spouse has failed. 


151 


152 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


The face of life seemed now to change for Claudia. 
Her admirers were bolder with their compliments, more 
pressing in their invitations; and although some of them 
were secretly rather intimidated by her direct-glancing, 
critical eyes and occasionally cynical tongue, they gave 
her plainly to understand that she need not waste her 
sweetness upon the desert air. She had lost that happy, 
absorbed look a woman wears when she is in love, but 
her personality had gained from the social point of view, 
for she was more arresting, more vivid, and she had 
always been accounted a good companion and conver- 
sationalist. But Claudia had not studied le monde ou Von 
s’ennuie for some years for nothing, and though she had 
hitherto kept a little aloof from certain phases, she was 
not ignorant, nor likely to let her vanity lead her into 
foolishness. The obvious love-hunter only amused her, 
and she used such men just as much as it suited her 
convenience. 

Besides Frank Hamilton she found only one man that 
really interested her and whose companionship she en- 
joyed — Charles Littleton, the American publisher. She 
had met him since their first dinner-party at one or two 
houses she frequented, and a sort of cheery understand- 
ing had grown up between them. Her brain was much 
more subtle than his, but he always responded when she 
led the way. He had a sense of humour and all sorts of 
stories to tell her of authors whom she only knew 
between bookcovers. His talk was always racy, and he 
occasionally used quaint idioms and expressions that 
gave his conversation a different flavour from that which 
was usually poured into her ears at dinners and at homes. 

The breach between Claudia and Gilbert had not been 
lessened by Jack’s mesalliance. Gilbert writhed under 
the publicity, and though he knew it was a nine-days’ 
wonder and would soon evaporate, he was infuriated with 
the house of Iverson and the offspring of Circe. A letter 


UNE CHAMBRE A LOUER 


153 


from his mother, quite illogical and trying to make him 
appear responsible for the marriage, made him more 
irritable. His reply to it was dignified, pointing out her 
untenable position — the attitude of a strong man towards 
women must be maintained, even with a mother — but he 
felt the sting of it all the same. His father, whom he 
met the next day, was not illogical, but there was an 
atmosphere of chilliness and silence on the subject which 
was probably more unpleasant to him than his mother's 
letter. A comic paper came out with a cartoon showing 
him giving advice on her contracts to The Girlie Girl. 
In view of it all, Claudia’s attitude was the worst of all. 
She took up Jack’s own attitude, that he was at liberty 
to do as he pleased with his life. She was logical and 
perfectly calm during their discussions, and Gilbert, to 
his great disgust, found himself forced into becoming 
illogical, which is enough to exasperate any lawyer, even 
a briefless one. 

“It’s a disgrace to us all,” he said stormily, his sombre 
grey eyes dark under the lowered lids, “a beastly 
scandal.” 

“Why are we disgraced?” said Claudia calmly, also 
forced to assume a position she had never meant to take. 
“She’s not your wife, she’s Jack’s.” A satirical smile 
curved her lips as she tried to imagine Gilbert married 
to The Girlie Girl. 

“A family stands or falls together,” said Gilbert 
heavily, noting the smile with inward resentment. Lately 
he had often seen that smile on his wife’s lips. 

“Oh ! surely not, nowadays. It is hard enough to have 
your own sins come home to roost, but to have your 
sister’s and your brother’s and your cousin’s and your 
aunt’s — Oh ! life would be too hard !” 

“Don’t be flippant ; we are discussing a serious matter.” 

“All the more reason not to lose our sense of humour. 
Undiluted seriousness is — the devil. After all, aren’t we 


154 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


making a great fuss over nothing in particular? I con- 
fess I was furious at first, but — Jack isn’t a German 
Crown Prince or the heir of great possessions, you know. 
I daresay it’s a lucky escape for some nice girl.” 

“A pretty way to speak of your own brother !” he 
flung at her. 

“Oh, Gilbert! how old-fashioned you are! Don’t you 
know a brother may be a friend or a stranger nowadays? 
I’m fond of Jack, but I don’t think he is cut out to take 
a firm and virtuous position on the family hearthrug. 
He’s always been much too good-looking and too rich 
to acquire goodness or have it thrust upon him. He 
seems genuinely fond of her. I am quite curious to 
see her.” 

She settled herself more comfortably in the corner of 
the couch and took up a book, as if to indicate that the 
subject was exhausted. Gilbert stood looking down 
upon her in his golfing kit. He made spasmodic efforts 
to take exercise — he had put on a couple of stone since 
their marriage — and being Saturday, he was free from 
his chambers. They both belonged to the club| at Sun- 
ningdale, but lately he never suggested that she should 
accompany him. Secretly, he was ashamed that she 
should see how badly out of form he was, for Claudia 
played fairly regularly, and had a good, clean stroke of 
her own. 

“See her?” he ejaculated. “I must ask you not to 
try and see her or identify yourself with this disastrous 
marriage in any way.” He made use of the word ask , 
but the tone made it equivalent to forbid. He did not 
want to go and play golf, although he felt he ought to, 
and the picture that Claudia made in her soft silken 
draperies, snugly ensconced in the well-warmed room, 
gave an additional edge to his tone. 

Claudia raised her expressive eyebrows and turned 
a page of the book. 


UNE CHAMBRE A LOUER 


155 

'‘Really, Gilbert, I will not ask her here to meet 
you ” 

“I should think not, indeed !” 

“ — but I have promised Jack that I will go and See 
her. What I do in future depends on — her and myself. 
After all, she is Jack’s wife and he is fond of her.” 

“Do you know this woman is — is notorious, that she 
is what men call ‘hot stuif’? Can’t you see that she 
has only married your brother to fleece him and degrade 
his family?” 

His eyes were black with anger and his lower lip pro- 
truded pugnaciously, just as his father’s did. Claudia 
watched him, fascinated, for this was the first real 
quarrel they had had. In the midst of a pregnant silence 
the door opened, and the manservant announced “Mr. 
Paton.” 

They were both so angry that they had not time enough 
to pull down the blinds before Paton was in the room, 
and he saw two people as he had never seen them before. 
Then they both recovered themselves — Claudia more 
easily than her husband — and went forward to greet him. 

“Colin, what a delightful surprise!” cried Claudia, 
taking his hand in hers. “I am glad to see you again.” 
Perhaps there was also a little relief at the interruption 
of an unpleasant scene, but she was unfeignedly glad to 
feel his firm hand-clasp once more. She was almost 
surprised herself to find how glad she was. 

“Hallo, old chap, back again, then ?” said Gilbert. “It’s 
good to see you. Safe and sound, eh? You look fit 
enough,” he added, ruefully casting a look down at him- 
self. “Why do some men put on fat and others don’t?” 

Paton laughed. “I suppose I belong to the lean kine. 
Yes, I think you have put on flesh, Gilbert.” 

In truth he was a little shocked at the deterioration 
in his old friend’s appearance. He had always been 
rather heavy for his age, but now a heaviness of the 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


156 

spirit as well as of the body seemed to have settled upon 
him. Surely the lids drooped more over the rather life- 
less eyes, and his chin and jowl were coarser ? He 
himself was much the same as when he had left England 
before the wedding, spare, erect, in obvious good form. 

“It’s abominable,” said Gilbert. “It isn’t what I eat, 
either.” 

The manservant opened the door again. “The car is 
at the door, sir.” 

“Going golfing?” smiled Paton. “Ah! I haven’t done 
that for a great while. Sounds sort of homely and 
English. I’m sure you could beat me into a cocked hat, 
Claudia, and I used to give you — how many strokes a 
hole?” 

“Ah! but I’ve been practising religiously with the 
deadly purpose of defeating you when you returned,” 
laughed Claudia gaily, the colour back again in her 
smooth, creamy cheeks. It was jolly to see Colin again. 
One could always talk nonsense or sense to Paton, and 
she suddenly realized that nobody had ever taken his 
place in that respect. “I’ll take you on to-morrow at 
Stoke Poges. I am thirsting for vengeance for old 
affronts.” 

“I say! I shall expect at least to get a ball in my 
eye or a gentle tap with the brassie. Still, let me like 
a golfer fall! I’ll take you on. And, Gilbert, what’s 
your form?” 

“Oh ! he’s; going down to see his parents to-morrow,” 
replied Claudia carelessly, ringing for the tea. “When 
did you land?” 

“Yesterday.” 

Claudia was pleased. He had lost no time in coming 
to see them. 

Although Paton had been his friend long before he 
had known Claudia, Gilbert had a curious feeling that 
he was not wanted. He felt they were eager to talk over 


UNE CHAMBRE A LOUER 


157 


many things. Paton would probably tell her all about 
his travels — well, travellers' tales were apt to be boring. 

“I shall see you again soon, Colin. I’d arranged to go 
this afternoon.” 

“ Let’s have lunch together early next week.” 

“I will if I can, but I’m infernally busy just now. Get 
a vacation soon though, thank goodness.” 

The door closed behind him, and as if the impulse 
were mutual, they found themselves shaking hands 
again. 

“Colin, what a long time you’ve been away. Don’t 
dare to tell me you’ve any plans for going away again, 
because I shall really hit you on the head with the brassie 
and incapacitate you.” 

It was a woman who teased him now, not the fresh, 
eager-eyed girl he had left. But from most men’s point 
of view she had gained more, much more than she had 
lost. She had acquired a nice, physical balance, that had 
been wanting before. She had the charm of early ma- 
turity. She was a woman who knew her power over 
men, and knew just what that power meant. She was 
on the surface even more frankly gay and charming, 
but it hid certain reserves. She would pretend to be 
more confidential and open, but would be less so. She 
would never shut a door with a bang in anybody’s face, 
but it would be shut quietly all the same. In the few 
minutes that he had been with her, Colin realized all this 
and, mingled with his admiration for her development — 
for he found her far handsomer than she had been — 
there was a touch of regret for the girl who had talked 
about anything and everything, and as frankly answered 
questions as she asked them. She was Gilbert’s wife, 
a woman of the world, and — a great deal more. 

“Taking stock of me?” she laughed, meeting his eyes. 
“But I don’t think Topsy had growed much this time.” 

“On the contrary, I think she has grown a good deal,” 


158 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


he said quietly. ‘‘You haven’t grown into a giraffe or a 
fat Boy Joey, but all the same you have grown.” 

She rested her head on her hand, her elbow propped 
on the arm of the couch, and looked speculatively at 
him. He reminded her of those? days before her mar- 
riage, when she had spelt marriage with a capital letter. 
And — yes — she did look back at herself from one side 
of a huge gulf. Was that gulf growth? She realized 
more what life meant, and might mean. She had touched 
hard facts, unalterable laws of nature, great moments, 
petty awakenings was all that growth? 

“Perhaps you are right,” she said slowly. 

“I am sure I am right. You have shot up at an 
alarming rate. You think before you speak now, a most 
potent symptom ! In the old days you would have blurted 
out ‘I haven’t grown,’ with great suddenness and force, 
and I should have been laid low by your vehemence.” 

Claudia smiled. “You mean I begin to know that I 
don’t know. I think I do realize that my landmarks are 
shifting.” 

“An awfully good sign,” he said cheerfully. “I’m 
always pulling up mine and planting them again. A con- 
stantly uprooted landmark gathers no moss .... Do I 
smell the smell of muffins? Claudia, this is heaven, 
indeed, and you are the ministering angel.” 

“There isn’t much of an angel about me,” said Claudia, 
rather jerkily, when the servant had withdrawn. “If 
I’m growing — I’m growing much nastier. I’m growing 
so short-tempered and prickly, and ” 

She stopped. She had heard a faint, a very faint 
sound at the door. Paton, whose hearing was as quick 
as her own, had heard it too. 

“Is that my old friend, Billie the Blessed Dachshund?” 
he asked. “Bless his stumpy legs ! May I let him in ?” 

She nodded, surprised to find that her eyes had sud- 
denly filled with tears. Why, she did not know. What 


UNE CHAMBRE A LOUER 


iS9 

had she been about to confess to him? It was just as 
well Billie had interrupted. 

Billie gave Paton a royal welcome, a most unusual 
welcome for him. For of all the hands that caressed 
him, he liked Paton’s next to his adored mistress. Billie 
would have told you that there are hands and hands. 
Some are heavy as lead on small dogs’ heads, some are 
blunt and stupid, some are cold and clammy, and send 
a shiver down a dog’s spine, and there are hands that 
are delicate and sensitive, and convey a sense of. liking 
that is most comforting to the canine tribe. 

“Verdict — not grown!” 

They both laughed heartily, and Billie stood with a 
smile — it certainly was a smile — and with his tail wag- 
ging surveying them both. 

“You have preserved your figure admirably, Billie. I’ll 

proceed to put it in jeopardy with this lump of sugar 

How nice of you, Claudia, to remember no milk in my 
tea.” 

“I suppose you saw that Gilbert and I were having — 
what shall I call it? — a row when you came in?” said 
Claudia calmly, her hands busy among the silver. 
“Oh! we were in a most exciting part when the door 
opened.” 

“All couples quarrel occasionally, don’t they ?” he 
said lightly. “That’s part of the joys of married life, 
isn’t it? Marriage is a sort of licence to quarrel and 
afterwards make it up.” 

“Oh! we don’t quarrel as a rule. Perhaps it would 
be better if we did. No, this was a special and particular 
quarrel, with a particular verse and chapter. You’ve 
heard of Jack’s asinine marriage, of course?” 

“Yes it was in the papers when I landed.” 

“What do you think about it?” 

“Now, what is the good of asking me that? Do you 
want me to tell you what I wouldn’t have done, or what 


i6o 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


I think he should have done? What’s the use? He’s 
done what he wanted to do.” 

“Ah! you take that attitude too.” 

“What can one say about a man’s marriage, except 
perhaps to regret or be glad? I don’t pretend that if I 
were a boy’s father, I shouldn’t be horribly annoyed with 
him for doing a thing that will probably be a failure. It 
ivas a surprise to you?” 

“Absolutely. You know! the sort of man Jack is. 
There have always been Girlie Girls of sorts. Only 
marriage is a different proposition, isn’t it? ‘Blest be 
the tie that binds,’ et cetera.” 

He nodded. “A great pity, of course. Have you seen 
her? What is she like?” 

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen her yet. That was the 
finishing touch to our quarrel. I’ve promised Jack to go 
and see her. After all, Jack is my brother, and he put 
it in such a way that — well, I felt I wanted to see her. I 
suppose she will be too awful for words?” 

He hesitated for a moment. He wondered why it 
jarred on him, the idea of her going to see Fay Morris. 
He had heard a good many stories about her, and he 
had several times come in contact with music-hall artistes 
— there had been some on the boat he went out on. But 
he was catholic in his tastes and mind, and personally 
he would never have drawn aside from contact with 
another human being. But Claudia with Fay Morris, 
Claudia in the Bohemian, over-heated atmosphere of the 
music-hall ! 

“Yes, I see, you think it will be all that. I suppose 
Jack is quite mad.” 

He forced himself to be just. “I don’t think we can 
say that. You know, all sorts of stories go round about 
such people, and she may be quite — quite maligned. She 
is young, only twenty-two, and there’s every chance with 
youth, you know. She can’t be viciously fair, fat and 


UNE CHAMBRE A LOUER 


161 


forty. And you were always interested in humans, 
Claudia.’’ 

“Oh, yes ! I still am, more so than ever. If someone 
were just taking me to see her as a curiosity,' it would 
be different. But, Colin, she’s my sister-in-law ! Suppose 
she talks Cockney, and drops her aitches, and calls me 
‘dearie’ or something!” 

“Perhaps it won’t be as bad as that,” suggested Colin, 
not liking the picture at all, and wishing he could go 
with her. “What does Jack say about her?” 

“Oh! nothing that tells you anything. And I can’t 
ask such questions of him, can I? Of course, Gilbert is 
furious at the idea of my going to see her. I think — I 
think he was going to forbid me to go and visit her, when 
you came in. What do you think?” 

He hesitated, for he knew it was a ticklish matter to 
arbitrate, or attempt to do so, between husband and wife. 

“I don’t need to think at all,” he said, after a pause. 
“You’re his sister, and you’ve got to do the thinking. 
And wihat you think should go, as the Americans say.” 

“Ah!” She drew a deep breath and put her hand 
impulsively on his arm, a little trick she had with people 
she liked. “You are a real comfort, Colin. In future I 
shall throw all my problems on you.” 

Frank Hamilton came in, as he was patting her hand, 
the two standing close together, and instant jealousy and 
suspicion filled him at the sight. It was the first time 
he had ever seen Claudia show any particular favour to 
a man, she was rather difficult to approach, and though 
it encouraged him not to be too diffident, he was also 
very angry with her. A couple of years ago he would 
have shown by his manner that he had noticed the little 
incident, but he had learned some of the usages of 
Mayfair, and he controlled himself. It showed itself, 
however, in a little stiffness. 

“Oh! Mr. Hamilton, let me introduce you to my old 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


162 

friend, Mr. Colin Paton. He has just come back from 
the Argentine, where I suppose there are no pictures ?” 

“Only Nature’s, and those of the most wonderful. I 
read an account of one of your exhibitions in a paper 
that was sent out to me, Mr. Hamilton. I should have 
liked to see that show.” 

“Mr. Paton educated my taste in pictures,” said 
Claudia, with a friendly glance at him. “He insisted on 
my liking the good things, and then I really did.” 

“Don’t believe her, Mr. Hamilton, she was always an 
excellent natural judge of pictures.” 

“But I did like them rather painty, at first, Colin, you 
must admit that. Do you remember that Leighton I 
adored and the Dicksee I found so poetical? And I 
made you stand and gaze at them, too. You must have 
stored up many a grudge against me for that.” 

Hamilton had heard Claudia speak of “a friend now 
abroad,” who had been her constant companion at 
picture-galleries and who had lent her several art books. 
But he had somehow got the idea that the friend was 
middle-aged, if not old. He wondered how he had got 
the idea, but something in Claudia’s tone had conveyed 
it to his mind. The man that he saw was neither quite 
young, middle-aged, nor old, and yet Hamilton felt there 
was a steady fund of youth in him. He instinctively 
understood that this man’s judgment would be worth 
having, that those quiet, keen eyes would make short 
work of his careless and meretricious paintings. For, 
though usually he was amply content with his own 
ability, he was aware at intervals that some of it left 
much to be desired, both in form and execution. He had 
a heaven-born gift for catching a likeness, and a great 
feeling for colour, but his technique was faulty, and 
lately he had done too much and too little. 

“I shall be giving another exhibition next month. I 
hope you will come to it,” he replied. 


UNE CHAMBRE A LOUER 


163 


“I shall make a point of doing so.” 

“We’ll go together,” said Claudia promptly, so 
promptly and so simply that some of the sting went out 
of his jealousy. After all, this man was exceedingly 
good form, and all that, but he was not good-looking, 
and though he knew about art, apparently he did nothing 
in that line. And Claudia had told him that she liked 
people who did things. 

He determined to make a possible enemy into a friend. 
“Mr. Paton, if you are interested in the service of art, 
do persuade your friend here to give me some more 
sittings for her portrait. I made a ghastly failure of 
my first attempt, but I think I can do much better now. 
I’ve got the thing in my mind and I’m aching to begin.” 

“Having your portrait painted, Claudia? That’s good 
news. To increase the joy of nations you must give 
him some sittings.” 

“It’s so tiresome sitting still,” said Claudia, looking at 
him plaintively out of the corners of her eyes. “I never 
was great at sitting still.” Woman-like, she did not give 
the real reason. She had begun to be afraid of those 
sittings, and as she met Frank’s eyes she felt that feeling 
re-awaken, He was too good-looking, too attractive to 
sit to. 

“There!” exclaimed Frank. “That’s what an artist 
has to contend with. Laziness, pure laziness! And she 
calls herself interested in art!” 

“Paint Mrs. Jacobs instead,” teased Claudia, with a 
gleam of mischief in her eyes, which set his blood afire. 

“I’ve said it — inwardly Mr. Paton, help me.” 

“I would like to see a good portrait of you,” said 
Colin earnestly. “You ought to make such a good sub- 
ject. I quite understand Mr. Hamilton’s anxiety to paint 
you. Do it — for the sake of your friends.” 

She looked at Hamilton, but she really answered Paton. 
After all, she had not too many real friends, and he was 


164 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


the best of them all, the most faithful, the most reliable 
and unchanging. 

“Very well. I’ll make a martyr of myself in the cause 
of friendship. I’ll come one day next week. Will that 
dor 


CHAPTER VII 


"miss fay morris that was” 

I T was still only a little past five when the two men 
departed, and Claudia found herself alone with a 
very restless mood. Had it been earlier she would have 
gone out and walked in the Park, for she often tramped 
away a mood of restlessness. But it was grey and dis- 
mal outside. She glanced at the piano, but that was not 
the right thing. She picked up her book — one of Anatole 
France’s — but that also she put down again in a very 
few minutes. Then the idea came to her. Her eyes 
opened widely and she caught her under-lip with her 
small teeth. Would she? 

Billie looked at her, and he knew she was going out. 
"No, Billie, can’t take you this time. Oh! well, yes, 
you can stop in the car.” 

"What hat will madame wear?” said Johnson, her 
hand on the cupboard that contained her hats. 

Claudia considered carefully, and decided on her most 
becoming one. It was a delightful possession, mostly 
composed of pearl-grey feather shading to the softest 
pink, and round her neck she wore a little necklet to 
165 


i6 6 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


match. Johnson wondered why she was so excited that 
she pulled a button off her gloves and demanded a fresh 
pair. It seemed as though her mistress was not going to 
make an ordinary call. 

“Now, Billiken, we must be off. I wonder ! I 
wonder !” 

She went over first to her writing-table and abstracted 
a little bit of paper. Jack’s writing was atrocious, but she 
could decipher it with some difficulty. 25A, Gilchrist 
Mansions, Bloomsbury. 

The car threaded its way through the crowded streets, 
and after what seemed a long time to Claudia, it stopped 
before a large block of flats, very red and very white, 
and obviously trying to show how gloomy was the rest 
of the square. Evidently it was a new block, and for 
this Claudia was thankful. Ugly youth is better than 
ugly age. 

There was a lift, which she entered, with a rather 
obsequious and yet familiar liftman, who, when she asked 
— after some natural hesitation — for Mrs. Iverson, said,. 
“Miss Fay Morris that was, you mean, madam ? Oh, yes ! 
it’s the third floor.” Claudia fancied that he eyed hej£ 
curiously as he manipulated the wires. She tried to brace 
herself for the ordeal, for now she was ascending in the 
lift she felt like hurriedly descending and running away. 
There was no doubt it was an ordeal. It is quite bad 
enough in the ordinary way to have to make the first call 
on a new sister-in-law, but when she is “Miss Fay Morris 
that was,” whose portraits adorned the entrances of 
several music-halls, it is a colossal undertaking. She 
wished most heartily she had asked Jack to take her. 
Why had she not thought of that? How foolish of her. 
But now she was here she must face the music. Perhaps 
Jack would be there. If so, it would be all right. And 
yet, in a way she would rather not have him there, for 
though he was as stupid as an owl, there was a sort of 


“MISS FAY MORRIS THAT WAS” 167 

understanding between them, and he would know what 
impression his wife was making on her. 

She rang the bell and waited. There was no answer. 
Ah ! a reprieve. She was turning away, but the liftman 
said reassuringly, “Ring again, ma’am. She’s in, I know. 
But the parrot makes such a noise they can’t hear the bell.” 

So that was the meaning of the curious screeching she 
had heard while waiting, like someone at the mercy of 
a clumsy dentist. How could anyone stand such awful 
sounds ! 

The door opened and a servant, still in a print dress, 
nodded when she asked if Mrs. Iverson were at home. 
The screeching had grown worse, and Claudia quite 
understood why the servant nodded. She noticed that 
she wore no cap and that her hair was outrageously 
frizzed and curled. Was this the servant Jack had called 
“a sketch, a fair sketch”? 

The good-sized hall was cheery enough with plenty of 
red paper and red carpet, perhaps a thought too cheerful, 
as though the decorator had said, “Now let’s have a 
cheerful hall, a very cheerful hall.” There was a large 
imitation oak stand, crowded with oddments in the way 
of coats. Claudia caught glimpses of a white knitted 
coat, a long squirrel one, a dark fur stole and two or three 
overcoats. There were any amount of umbrellas, walking- 
sticks, etc., and over all was a strong smell of cooking. 

“Chuck it! Chuck it! Chuck it!” shrieked the parrot 
from somewhere near at hand. Claudia gave a start. 

“Only that blessed bird,” said the servant. “She’s in 
there, miss.” 

She jerked her head in the direction of a door that 
was a little ajar and suddenly departed. Claudia opened 
her lips to speak, but the maid had gone. 

“Chuck it! Chuck it!” came more faintly from evi- 
dently the kitchen regions. 

Claudia felt a strong desire to laugh. Then she heard 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


1 68 

a voice singing in a room on her right. It seemed to 
be the door the servant had indicated. The voice was 
untrained, but of a good quality, sweet and rather high- 
pitched. 

“I’m good little Lucy who lives in the dell, 

And what I don’t know is ” 

The rest seemed somehow smothered and she could not 
catch the words. 

Claudia tapped at the door in considerable embarrass- 
ment. Would she have to announce herself, and what 
would she say? 

She pushed open the door gently and she saw a most 
remarkable sight, nothing less than a pair of exquisitely 
shaped little legs and feet in white silk tights that seemed 
to belong to a frilly pink lampshade. That was Claudia’s 
first impression, and then she saw that someone had her 
back to her, delving down into a huge trunk. Her 
second impression was that she had never seen a room 
that was so blue! There were pale blue curtains, wall- 
paper and bed-spread, blue flowers on the carpet and 
satin bows everywhere. 

"Is that you, Madam Rose?” said a voice from the 
depths, which was rough and unrefined, but was not 
Cockney. “Half a jiff. I can’t find my pink shoes 
and ” 

“I beg your pardon,” said Claudia, standing in the 
doorway, “but I am not Madame Rose. The maid did 
not ” 

Claudia had just time to catch a glimpse of a piquant 
little face with great surprised blue eyes, when there was 
a cry of pain. The lid of the trunk, a heavy, clamped 
one, had descended on the small hand. 

“Oh, gracious!” said the ballet-like person, hopping 
about holding her hand; “oh! that damned trunk! Ouch! 
My goodness ! it’s nearly broken my knuckles.” 


“MISS FAY MORRIS THAT WAS” 


169 


Her little face was screwed up with pain, so that she 
hardly looked at her visitor. Claudia’s eyes caught sight 
of a jug of water steaming away on the untidy wash- 
stand, and she quickly went over to it. 

“Here,” she said, “put your hand in this jug. That 
will stop the pain and prevent it discolouring. Yes, I 
know how those things hurt.” 

The hand was so small that it easily slid down into the 
jug. Claudia marvelled at its size, and then she noticed 
that the girl was hardly up to her shoulders. Why, it 
looked like a small child. This could not be The Girlie 
Girl, surely? 

Then she became aware that the wrinkles had come 
undone and that the big blue eyes were looking at her. 

“My word!” The blue eyes stared at her with the 
directness and naivete of a child. The small mouth 
dropped open a little as companion in the process. “Who 
are you? I thought at first you were Madame Rose 
with my new set of curls, and then cocking half an eye 
at you, I thought you must be Maudie de Vere. But — 
who on earth are you?” 

“Is your hand better?” said Claudia, half smiling, half 
embarrassed. “Please tell me first, are you — Fay?” 

The girl looked at her with a sudden seriousness. “Yes, 
and I guess who, you are. You’re Jack’s sister, aren’t 
you ?” 

“Yes,” returned Claudia. “I’m Jack’s sister. I am 
sorry to come in this unceremonious way into your 
bedroom ” 

“Oh ! that doesn’t matter,” said Fay, never taking her 
eyes off Claudia’s face, “everybody comes in here when 

they want me, because I’m hardly ever out of it 

My!” — her feelings overcoming her — “you are hand- 
some ! Jack told me you were good-looking, but he didn’t 
tell me you were such a stunner. I never saw anyone 
so pretty.” 


170 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


It was impossible to resent the frank criticism or the 
speaker as she stood there in her most extraordinary 
attire. For the fluffy, chiffony petticoats ended just 
below the knees, and over her shoulders she had thrown 
a lacy matinee jacket, adorned with pale blue ribbons 
and showing a neck and throat perfect in a miniature 
way. Her hair — jet black and in remarkable contrast 
to her eyes, which seemed as though they should belong 
to a head of flaxen hair — was rather short, but fell about 
her shoulders in curly masses. 

Claudia was completely at a loss how to answer this 
very naive tribute to her charms. But Fay was used to 
making the entire conversation, and she went on without 
noticing any lack of conversational powers on the part of 
her visitor. , 

“I might have known it wasn t Maudie, though, be- 
cause she uses so much scent it’s like a chemist’s shop 
coming into your room. I like a little sprayed on myself, 
but she puts it on with a garden hose. I’ve told her 
about it heaps of times. I think it’s such bad taste, don’t 
you ?” 

It was not quite the conversation Claudia had vaguely 
imagined. And yet, though Fay gabbled on, her words 
coming at a tremendous speed, she felt that her hostess 
was taking good stock of her. At the back of those 
childish eyes there was a shrewd little brain. She 
showed this by her next words: 

“You’re hopping mad with Jack and me, aren’t you? 
I never saw Jack in such a state as the morning when 
the thing came out in the newspaper.” She gave a little 
chuckle. “I must say I enjoyed it. I 1 like to keep my 
name before the public, for one thing. You’ve got to 
keep on working some sensation, or you’re passed over.” 
She pulled her hand out of the jug and dried it on a 
towel, which she flung on! the very ornate bed. It had 
a lace coverlet over pale blue satin, and enormous bows 


: MISS FAY MORRIS THAT WAS’ 


of pale blue satin ribbon ornamented the corners. A 
huge nightdress-case of the same satin painted with pink 
roses was lying on the frilled] pillows, which were also 
threaded with pale blue. 

She came over to where Claudia was standing. “I 
say, don’t be mad with me. I like you. I didn’t think 
I would. I thought you’d be starchy and turn up your 
nose at me. It was nice of you to think of that hot 
water for my hand. Sit down and make friends with 
me, will you?” 

Claudia appreciated her charm as she stood in front 
of her, playing with her sable muff. It was the charm 
of the gamine- child. 

“I — I came to have a little talk with you,” returned 
Claudia, smiling. You simply could not help smiling 
at it. 

“That’s right. Sit down. Bless me, there never is 
a chair that isn’t littered up.” She took a handful of 
clothes and threw them carelessly on the floor. “Now 
just sit down there and tell me what the people you 
know say about me. I suppose I shouldn’t have married 
Jack, and I told him at first he’d better^ run away and 
play with Lady Somebody or other. But he wouldn’t 
go. He’ll tell you that if you ask him.” 

“I’ll take your word for it,” returned Claudia as Fay 
energetically seized a brush and commenced to brush 
her hair. 

“Oh! bother!” she said, stopping short, “and I want 
those curls. Madame Rose is a blighter all right. She 
promised them for to-day. Well, Polly will have to rake 
those other curls over and make them presentable.” She 
went to the door and shouted, “Polly! Polly! come here 
quick.’” 

A red-haired girl came running in, her hands all wet 
and soapsuddy. “Miss Fay, I’m Just washing your 
stockings.” 


172 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


“Leave ’em and come and dish up these curls. That 
old beast hasn’t sent my new set. Look, Polly, this is 
Mr. Jack’s sister. Isn’t she lovely?” 

The red-haired girl stared at Claudia with her 
greeny-brown eyes. Claudia had never been inspected 
by a servant in such a manner before. Her lips 
twitched, but she assisted Polly by looking straight at 
her. 

“She ain’t much like] the Capting, is she ?” Polly said 
in strong Cockney. “But then, I ain’t a bit like my 
brother. He’s in the army too. I always say as brothers 
and sisters ” 

“Don’t chatter so much. Take those curls and 
vanish.” Fay waved her small hand imperiously, and 
Polly, grabbing a bunch of curls, went out. “We don’t 
want her in here listening to us, do we?” said Fay con- 
fidentially. “Not but that Polly knows most everything. 
She was on the halls once herself — doing small stunts 
with an acrobat — and she got rheumatic fever. My 
mother saved her life) and kept her going for goodness 
knows how long. When mar died, she came to me as 
a sort of dresser. And she runs everything here.” She 
waved her hand round the apartment. “The tradesmen 
don’t do her. As far me, I’m no good at housekeeping. 
Don’t know a chicken from a turkey. Of course, Jack 
says she isn’t smart enough. He says he wants me to 
have some proper servants. But, what’s the trouble? 
I’m comfortable, and that’s everything, isn’t it?” 

“The best of servants can only make you comfortable,” 
conceded Claudia, looking at the littered apartment. 
There was a cup and saucer on the dressing-table, and 
the spoon was on the floor. Some biscuits and an orange 
were side by side with a powder-pufi and a scent-spray. 
One satin slipper rested on the pin-cushion, and a pair 
of silk stockings were thrown over the mirror, which 
had enormous wings and occupied a large amount of the 


MISS FAY MORRIS THAT WAS’ 


173 


available space. Fay was busily putting up her hair as 
she talked. 

“You know, I’m awfully gone on your brother. I 
never met anyone like him before.” Now she was ener- 
getically rubbing cold cream all over her neck and arms. 
“I like to make up at home. It’s much more comfortable. 
Those dressing-rooms are so draughty. Have you ever 
seen me? But of course you have. I suppose everybody 
has. I top the bill at most of the halls now. And I 
make a row when I don’t. Do you like my turn ?” 

“I’m sorry to say I seldom go to variety houses,” said 
Claudia, feeling somehow that she ought to have seen 
her. 

“What!” — she turned, with her face smothered with 
grease. “You haven’t seen me do my turn? Jack must 
take you this very night. He’ll be along soon.” 

“Oh ! I — er — am afraid I’m engaged to-night.” 

Polly returned and planked the curls down on the 
dressing-table. 

“Here you are, miss, and Mr. Robins is out in the hall. 
He wants to see you.” She grinned. “He’s got a bucket 
for yer.” 

“What!” Fay screamed gleefully, “old Joey Robins! 
Why, this is worth a week’s screw.” She rushed to the 
door just as she was and called out: “Come in, Joey, my 
boy. I’m awful glad to see you.” 

She flung her arms round the neck of a man whose 
face was typically that of a low comedian of the old 
school. He was funny even off the stage, and Claudia 
vaguely remembered the name. He was somewhere 
about fifty, and had a habit of blinking as he talked, like 
a parrot. Claudia found out afterwards that he had 
acquired it for stage purposes — the audiences shrieked 
at him when he just blinked and did nothing else — and 
he could not rid himself of it in private life. 

“Come in, do. Joey, this is my sister-in-law. You 


174 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


know Joey? You may not know me, but you know Joey 
all right. Joey Robins on the Razzle-Dazzle ! My ! that 
was a good number, wasn’t it ?” 

She put her head on one side and her hands on her 
hips, and began to skip about, humming a catchy tune. 

Claudia found the comedian was extending a large and 
very rough hand. “Glad to make your acquaintance, 
miss. I say, Fay, there’s a turnip for you outside. Shall 
I fetch it in?” 

“Rather! You don’t mean it’s Oh! Joey, you 

darling !” It was an immense bouquet of the old-fashioned 
kind, and it was tied with long, streaming ribbons of 
white satin. “I told ’em not to stint the ribbing. I 
said my little gal don’t get married hevery day. Well, 
my dear, how does it agree with you?” 

“Oh, fine !” she laughed, using a little brush to darken 
her eyelashes. “Wasn’t you surprised when you saw it 
in the papers?” 

“No,” said the man, still blinking, “not exsakerly sur- 
prised. I always said you was fit to be a princess. I 
see you’re at the Royal this week? Best advertisement 
you hever ’ad, my girl.” 

“And I don’t forget I owe it all to you,” she said 
earnestly, leaving off with one eyelash blacked. “Yes,” 
turning to Claudia, who did not feel left out in the cold, 
because Fay took it for granted that she was interested 
in this queer, common man who had come in, “he got 
me my first engagement, and I don’t forget it.” 

“Oh, go on ! it was nothing.” 

“Well, I shall never make light of it,” she said, with a 
vigorous nod of her small head, now entirely over- 
weighted with the curls she had pinned on. They spoilt 
the shape of her head and stuck out in masses about her 
ears. Fay went on quickly with the making-up process. 
“You gave me a shove here and a shove there, and now 
I’ve got into high society, I don’t forget those who 


“MISS FAY MORRIS THAT WAS’ 


i/5 


helped me. I’m going to give a dinner to celebrate the 
wedding — you must come” — nodding friendly-wise to 
Claudia — “and so must you and your missus, Joey.” 

“It’s kind of you, Fay, but I’ll be up north for the 
next month.” He looked at a large gold watch, the 
chain of which meandered over a waistcoat of startling 
pattern. “Can’t stay many minutes. Got to get down 
to Reading to-night. Came up a purpose to bring you 
the turnip.” 

“You’re a duck, Joey. Polly! Polly! Bring in a 
bottle of fizz. Sharp’s the word! Yes, Joey, it’s a 
special occasion and I’d like her to have some too. You 
know” — speaking to both of them — “I never take nothing 
until after I’ve done my work, unless it’s a glass of 
stout, but Joey’s got to drink me a proper health. Come 
on, Polly, bring a glass for yourself.” 

“Hallo, Polly!” said! Joey, “still ginger, eh? My, 
we’re getting on in the world, ain’t we? You fancy 
yourself, waiting on the wife of a capting, don’t yer? 
I’ll do that for yer. You hold the glass.” 

“It’s the best fizz,” said Fay, who was now putting 
the rouge thickly on her cheeks. “It costs ten shillings 
a bottle and that’s wholesale price too. I know a man — 
do you know Sam Levy? He’s got an interest in a 
champagne business, or something. Anyway, I told him 
to get me some of the best. Jack says it’s too sweet, 
But I like it that way. The other stuff tastes like ginger- 
ale. When I have fizz I like to know it’s fizz. But 
there” — she turned to Claudia, who at half-past six in 
the evening somehow found herself holding a glass of 
champagne — “I suppose you drink champagne every 
night of your life, don’t you?” 

At that instant; Jack came in at the door, which was 
wide open. 

“Just in time old boy,” called out Fay. “This is my 
old friend Joey Robins — my husband.” 


176 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


“Please to meet you sir— I mean capting,” murmured 
Joey Robbins, blinking at him. “You’re got the smartest 
little woman in the world as your wife, sir. There’s no 
one to touch her in her perfession. Lord! she did for 
old Joey long ago. She fairly beat his heart to a pulp.” 

Jack had just caught sight of Claudia, and his face 
was a curiosity to behold. 

“But,” said Joey, with a rough note of kindly earnest- 
ness in his voice, “no larking any more,' Fay, my dear. 
Be a good child, be a good child.” 

Fay slipped her arm round Jack’s neck, standing on a 
footstool to do so. 

“We’re both going to be good children, aren’t we, Jack? 
We’ve both been a bit flighty, but we’re going to be good 
now. I’m going” — her blue eyes opened widely, and she 
gavef Jack a hearty hug— “to be a responsible person in 
future. Drink, all of you. Drink to the health of a 
pair of naughty children who are going to be good !” 

It was not a bit as Claudia had planned it, but she 
found herself obediently drinking the health of her 
brother and sister-in-law in very bad and very sweet 
champagne. 


CHAPTER VIII 


"two in a studio” 

T WO days later Claudia was wrinkling her brows 
over her visiting-list, and sadly contemplating the 
people she had been shunting, and who must be asked 
to dinner, when she was surprised to hear Gilbert’s voice 
outside the door. He had been confined to bed for the 
last few days with a sharp attack of influenza, and 
Neeburg had forbidden him to go out. 

She rose and opened the door. Outside was her hus- 
band, with his hat and coat on. 

"Gilbert!” 

"I’m going down to my chambers for an hour or two. 
I’m sick of this coddling, and the only thing to do is to 
work it off. It was a mistake to take to bed at all. I’m 
convinced you bring on illnesses that way.” 

"Come in a minute. Did Dr. Neeburg say you might 
go?” 

"No. Doctors always try and keep you in bed, and 
Fritz is no better than the rest of them.” 

His face was flushed and unhealthy in colour. His 
eyes seemed more sombre than ever, and he was ob- 
viously quite unfit to go out of the house. 

"Gilbert, this is madness. Have you looked at your- 
self in the glass? At least wait to see the doctor this 
morning. Surely your work can wait for awhile, or one 
of your clerks can come down as he did yesterday ?” 

“I’ve got to be in court on a big case four lays hence, 
and all my books and things are down there. Lots of 
people have influenza and don’t stop indoors. I’m strong; 
I’ll soon throw the thing oil if my mind is occupied.” 

177 


178 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


She did not know what to say. She knew it was very 
unwise for him to go out, but, after all, she could not 
force him to stay indoors. Neeburg had told her pri- 
vately that he was very much run down and needed a 
good rest. Was it a good thing to tell a man he was not as 
strong as he thought he was ? Gilbert was always so proud 
of his robust health, and so contemptuous of weaker men. 
An old friend of his, a barrister, who often secured his 
services, had recently had to go for a sea-voyage owing 
to nerve-strain, and Gilbert had commented on it with a 
complete lack of sympathy and understanding. People 
who got ill easily he dubbed “weaklings.” 

“Well, Gilbert,” she said gravely, “of course I can’t 
make you keep to the doctor’s orders, but I do ask you 
to give yourself a fair chance. You know” — tentatively 
— “you have really been overworking for a long time, 
and your constitution may be strong, but you can’t tax 
it when you have an attack of influenza.” 

“I’m all right,” he said rather truculently. “And I’m 
going down in the car to a well-warmed room. It won’t 
harm me, and I shall feel easier in my mind. I loathe 
having nothing to do.” 

She looked at him, and wondered what he would do 
if he had a real long illness. The whole man was his 
work, and his work was the man. He had practically 
no hobbies, no pursuits, no amusements. When she had 
married him he had been keen on golf, but even that he 
had dropped. 

Suddenly she said to him, “Do you ever wonder how I 
spend my days, Gilbert?” 

He looked at her in dull surprise. “Oh! women al- 
ways find something to do, don’t they? Dressmakers, 
shopping, et cetera. Why ?” 

“Oh, nothing. You know Frank Hamilton is painting 
my portrait, don’t you?” 

“Yes, I think you did tell me. Is it going to be good?” 


TWO IN A STUDIO’ 


He was obviously not very interested, and anxious to be 
gone. 

“Yes, I think so, this time. But he needs a good many 
sittings Do you like Frank Hamilton?” 

“I never thought about it. Yes, I suppose he’s all 
right for an artist. Well, I must go now. I daresay I 
shan’t be away many hours.” 

“Gilbert,” she said pleadingly, “don’t go. You are not 
fit, really. If you don’t want to stop in bed, stay here 
with me and read some books, or if your eyes hurt, I’ll 
read to you. There’s such an amusing biography here.” 

He shook her hand off his coat-sleeve and went towards 
the door. “I’m too restless, Claudia. Tell Neeburg I 
had to go.” 

He was gone, and Claudia walked back to her desk. 
Though various thoughts were buzzing through her head, 
inflammatory, rebellious thoughts, she completed the list 
of undesirables and requested the honour of their 
company at dinner. Most of the stodgy ones were 
friends of Gilbert’s family and good and worthy men 
at the Bar, with their good and worthy wives. 

At last Claudia laid down her pen and took up the 
telephone. Frank’s voice answered her at the other end. 

“I say, I told you I couldn’t come this afternoon for 
the sitting. But I find I can, after all. Is it still con- 
venient ?” 

“Yes, and I’m delighted to hear it. I haven’t seen 
you for three whole days — an eternity !” 

“What a pretty speech!” mocked Claudia; “but I’ve 
got the grain of salt here.” 

“You can laugh at me if you like, but it only makes 
things worse. I sometimes wonder if you are quite heart- 
less. Don’t you believe in any man ?” 

“Not — not if I can help it. Well, I’ll be with you 
about three. I can’t talk now ; I’m busy.” 

But she sat for half an hour quite unoccupied, at least 


i8o 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


she had no tangible occupation. She wrote no letters 
and she sent no more invitations. The only thing she 
did was to light a cigarette and stare out of the window 
at the bare branches of the trees, just faintly beginning 
to bud. And yet she was not thinking of the view, for 
she looked for quite five minutes at the Albert Memorial, 
and it was an edifice she loathed. Her face was set and 
expressionless, only her eyes burned like live, glowing 
coals in her head. 

Rhoda Carnegie was lunching with her. She had rung 
up earlier in the day and requested the meal, saying 
quite frankly that a man had failed her and that she 
wanted some decent food. 

Claudia neither liked nor disliked her, she had got 
used to her, for every now and then she had drifted into 
the Iverson household. 

Rhoda was late, but as Claudia knew her habits she 
had ordered lunch a quarter of an hour later than usual. 

“I’m late, dear. So sorry. But I put on six hats and 
hated them all, so I’ve come out in the ugliest.” It was 
a queer-shaped one, that showed the tip of her nose and 
part of an ear. 

“Aren’t you afraid you’ll get run over when you wear 
a hat like that ?” laughed Claudia. 

“It does make the day seem gloomy, I admit. But a 
hat like this intrigues a man. He doesn’t know what 
else there is to it. There nothing like mystery about a 
hat. Well, and how goes V affaire Hamilton ?” 

Claudia started to frown and then changed her mind. 
Rhoda was not actively malicious, except when she hated 
a rival, and a frown would be wasted on her. 

“Oh! quite nicely,” she said coolly, inwardly a little 
startled that it should have come to that. “I think the 
picture will be a success this time.” 

“Ah! if I were interested in a portrait-painter I 
should certainly have my portrait painted, but that type 


“TWO IN A STUDIO’ 


181 


doesn’t appeal to me, and I hate having to talk art and 
look at daubs that are not half as nice as the things they 
represent. We hate one another most cordially. Two 
poseurs together, you know. It takes a poseur to catch 
a poseur 

Claudia stopped in the act of raising a glass of hock 
to her lips. “You consider him a poseur?” 

Haven’t you spotted that?” drawled Rhoda. “I wish 
I could afford a decent cook. No, you wouldn’t. You 
think he has an artistic soul. I am certain he hasn’t. 
But if you don’t rub the veneer to hard I daresay it 
won’t come off while you are playing with it.” 

“I don’t see why you call him a poseur,” returned 
Claudia. “Unless you think we are all poseurs and — 
well, one has to wear clothing !” 

“I’ll call it acting if you like it better. Wasn’t it 
Meissonier who said, ‘Painters always have in them 
something of the actor, they have the instinct for atti- 
tude and gesture’? But he’s clever, he acts rather well. 
So do I. And a pose is justified by its cleverness.” 

She leaned forward on the table and smiled in her 
hostess’s face. 

“My dear, don’t think I am trying to say that his love 
for you is a pose. But — well, naturally. Ybu are very 
handsome and an excellent companion. Shall I tell you 
what he is not?” 

“If you like,” said Claudia, with an affectation of 
indifference. 

“He is not working for art’s sake. He is not generous, 
except to himself. He is not quite a gentleman — yes, 
let me finish — either by birth or natural feeling. And he 
is not — good enough for you, ma chere.” 

“There is hardly any question ” began Claudia 

hotly. 

“Claudia, don’t pretend. It’s not necessary with me. 
I daresay he is more amusing than Gilbert, but still, he’s 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


182 

not the right man. One’s husband is an accident; a 
lover is sometimes — a mistake. After all, in spite of the 
sweetest poodles and coon-can, love is the one thing that 
interests women. But be careful with Frank Hamilton. 
He is the sort if a man who gives a woman away, and 
discretion is the first requisite for a lover.” 

Claudia ignored the bigger issues. It was impossible 
to snub Rhoda. 

“You don’t like him, and therefore you are preju- 
diced,” she replied, playing with a fat little quail on her 
plate. “What do you know about him?” 

“I know he is the son of a small country solicitor who 
used to live at Salisbury. Now he lives in Kensal Green 
Cemetery. His grandfather was the butcher of that 
town, and I believe his grandfather wanted to put Frank 
into his business, but ” 

“Oh, Rhoda! don’t be ridiculous. Besides, what does 
it matter what his grandfather was ? You’re talking like 
Lady Currey now. And it’s so old-fashioned !” 

“Pooh ! I don’t care about people’s ancestors, although 
I think a butcher peculiarly unpleasing, let us say. Loin- 
chops and rumpsteaks are so prosaic. No, that isn’t the 
point. He hasn’t got the innate feelings of a gentleman, 
and with his upbringing he would let any woman down. 
There are some things that men of the world with decent 
breeding don’t do. And now tell me what the scandal 
is about Lucy Morgan and the card that dropped on the 
floor?” 

At three, Claudia left Rhoda with the box of cigarettes 
— she had already smoked five — and the latest thing in 
novels, and went to Frank’s studio. She felt rather 
self-conscious as she ascended the stairs, for now some- 
one had labelled it I’affaire Hamilton it seemed to have 
taken a different complexion. Well, other women were 
all having flirtations, why not she? She had never 
meant to; she recalled how she had looked on such 


TWO IN A STUDIO’ 


183 


affairs during her engagement — not with disgust, her 
upbringing was against that, but she had been sorry for 
the women who had to fill up their lives in underhand 
ways. Life had looked so easy then, now she was begin- 
ning to realize that life is most subtle, most complex, 
most alluring and — most disappointing. 

She involuntarily stopped and gave a delicate sniff as 
she entered the studio. It was full of some over-sweet 
perfume. 

“Have you upset a bottle of perfume?” she asked. 
“This is sweetness twice distilled.” 

He went to the window hastily. “Don’t accuse me of 
using perfume. One of my sitters.” 

“Heavens! who uses such a perfume?” 

He busied himself with the chair she was to sit in. 
“Oh, you’ve met her. Mrs. Jacobs.” 

“Mrs. J Oh, yes! the yellow lady with much 

wealth. Well, you might make something odd and 
bizarre out of her. But perhaps she wants to be depicted 
as a blush-rose?” 

“Don’t let’s talk about her. I don’t want to remember 
any other woman when you are here. ... No, that arm 
isn’t quite right.” His hand was subtly caressing as he 
bent it into the position required, and it sent a little 
physical thrill through her. But when she met his eyes, 
he saw only a mocking light in them. All the same, he 
was quick to detect a slight difference in her attitude 
towards him. After the episode of the drive home from 
Hampstead he had been at first furiously angry, but 
after a while her very elusiveness had intrigued him to 
fresh efforts. His experience with women had been that 
they were always rather shy when it came to the last 
moves in the game ; and Claudia was certainly a prize 
in the feminine market. 

“You don’t know the happiness it gives me to work 
on your portrait Just look a little more to the left— 


1 84 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


a trifle more — yes, that’s right.... You must give me 
the chance of finishing it. I shall be restless and un- 
happy until it is done. . . . Don’t make me more unhappy 
than I am already,” he concluded softly. 

The studio was very warm — too warm, and the scent 
still lingered in the air. It was an unpretentious apart- 
ment, but it had not that bare, unclothed look which 
distinguished some artists’ studios. Frank declared that 
he worked better in a coloursome atmosphere, and he 
had picked up some beautiful Oriental hangings, subdued 
but rich, which draped the walls with dull gold and reds. 
The few pieces of furniture were good. Frank had 
bought them very cheaply from a former tenant. 

“I don’t see why you should be unhappy,” answered 
Claudia languidly, watching him mix some colours on his 
palette. “Young and successful, that ought to be enough 
to make a man happy.” 

“Unsuccessful in the one thing that he really wants,” 
replied the man at the easel, with a quick glance at her. 

Claudia knew it was injudicious to continue in this 
strain, but something within her, reckless and craving 
for excitement, urged her on. 

“We never get the things we really want. That 
would be Paradise .... And what do you want so par- 
ticularly?” 

“What I am afraid there is no chance of gaining,” he 
replied softly; “the heart of the dearest, most beautiful 
woman in the world.” 

“You want — a good deal.” 

“Nothing less would content me.” 

The studio was on the roof of a building in Victoria 
Street and was reached by a long flight of stairs from 
his living apartments below. Somewhere down there a 
middle-aged, flat-footed woman acted as his servant, but 
she never came into the studio unless Frank rang for 
her. The sounds of the traffic made a dull, heavy 


TWO IN A STUDIO 5 


185 

grumbling below, but no other noise intruded upon them. 

He looked at his sitter and he found her very desirable 
and very beautiful, especially to-day, with that touch of 
languor, that air of laisser faire, as of one who lays 
down the oars and deliberately lets the boat drift with 
the current. Was it only a momentary mood? Did he 
dare to say more? 

She looked at the man, and she found him young and 
very much alive, fully aware and appreciative of her 
femininity. , 

Unconsciously she sighed. 

In an instant he had thrown down the brushes and 
was at her side, a light in his eyes, a look on his face 
that made her shrink back a little and catch at the arms 
of the chair. 

“Claudia!” 

She raised her eyebrows interrogatively. 

He had dropped on his knees beside her chair — he 
could do such things gracefully — and his lips were 
pressed on the back of her hand, on her wrist, on her 
soft forearm. 

“Don’t, Frank, I ” 

“Claudia, I worship you” he said recklessly. “You 
must know it. Don’t keep me at arm’s length any longer. 
You are driving me mad by your coldness. I can’t paint, 
I can’t sleep. ... I can only think of you as you might 
be if you would let yourself love me.” 

They had both risen to their feet, and he slipped his 
arm persuasively round her shoulders. His nearness 
seemed to deprive her of any will or any desire to repulse 
him. Love is sweet, and his evident sincerity and pas- 
sion seemed to soothe some aching wound within her. 
Was not this what she needed to make her life tolerable? 
Every woman is entitled to love, and her marriage had 
been a mistake. Perhaps, if she had known all she knew 
now and she had met Frank earlier. . . . 


1 86 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


“Claudia, my dearest, say something to me.” 

He drew her unresistingly to him, and the lids drooped 
over her eyes as she felt the warmth of his breath on her 
face and then the pressure of his lips. 

There was none of the fierce masculinity and violence 
of Gilbert’s early love-making. Frank Hamilton was too 
much of an artist for that, and it was not the first time 
he had made love to a fastidious, sensitive woman. He 
gave her just the right impression, just the assurance 
she needed at that moment of tender affection and almost 
reverent passion. Had he been more virile in his love- 
making, memory would have awakened, and with her 
later knowledge she would have repulsed him. She 
would have said to herself, “This is passion, only passion, 
and I know what a little it means.” Suspicion would have 
plucked at her sleeve. But Frank struck the right note, 
partly by instinct, partly by design. 

When at last she made a faint resistance to the pres- 
sure of his arms, he slowly let her go, only to catch her 
hands and cover them again with kisses. She looked 
down at the waves of his dark hair, worn a little longer 
than is usual, but not noticeably “artistic,” and she felt 
sure that she cared for him. He had given a grateful 
warmth to her heart. A glow of tenderness rose in her 
for him. 

“I think you are foolish to care so much for me,” she 
said softly. 

He drew her hands up till they rested on his shoulders, 
and he smiled with happy contradiction into her face. 
He was very good-looking in his triumph, and she could 
not help rejoicing in his comeliness. The Greeks wor- 
shipped beauty, and were they so wrong? Youth and 
good looks ought to be part of love. Surely it is the 
ideal. 

“Now you look as I knew you could look,” he said 
half dreamily; “your eyes are soft and velvety like the 


“TWO IN A STUDIO” 


187 


petals of the pansy. I must kiss them once again .... 
dear eyes. . . .beautiful eyes. . . .and I’ve looked into them 
such a long time, hoping to see them soften and glow as 
they do now. Claudia, if you knew how much I love you.” 

“I wonder why,” she laughed, with the harmless 
coquetry of the woman who knows herself loved, “when 
there are such a number of women in the world.” 

“There isn’t any woman comparable to you. I don’t 
realize now that another woman exists on the face of the 
earth. I feel as if you and I were standing on a desert 
island. There are many people on the other islands, of 
course, but not on ours.” He really meant it at the moment. 

She pretended to laugh at his extravagance, but all the 
time 1 she felt that this was the way a man should love 
a woman. Had she not felt like that when she had been 
in love with Gilbert ? The world had consisted of Gilbert 
— and people. Of course, Frank loved her more than 
she did him, but that somehow evened up things a little. 
She had loved Gilbert more than he had loved her. 

“Always I know how little severs me 
From my heart's country....’* 

he murmured. 

“Then I saw the tombstones in the dark and their 
message,” she interrupted, the scene in the motor recur- 
ring to her. 

“You saw ?” 

“Nothing only don’t quote poetry; it makes every- 

thing seem so unreal. ’ 

“Unreal?” He caught her to him passionately. “Is 
this unreal ? Don’t you believe in my love ?” 

She let her head droop on his shoulder. “Men have 
such large hearts — or such small ones. Don’t look so hurt, 

dear It’s true. Men love and unlove so much more 

easily than women.” But her lips smiled and took the 
sting out of her words. The lips said, “I want to be- 


1 88 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


lieve,” while the worldly, cynical words flowed over them. 
“What is fire to-day, Frank, is ashes to-morrow.” 

“You don’t believe that love can last?” 

His eyes shone, and he made a most convincing lover. 
His voice had the right ring. She could feel the pulsating 
warmth of his hand through the thin ninon of her sleeve. 
“Claudia, you mean everything to me — everything. I 
hardly dared to hope, and yet I had to, just as a ship- 
wrecked sailor has to dream of land or he would die. I 
have worked hard because I wanted to be worthy of your 
praise, of your confidence. You have inspired everything 
I have done. All the time I have been striving to please 
you” 

It was balm to her, it was food for her heart’s hunger. 
He had worked hard at his profession but to please her, 
to lay his success as an offering at her feet — art, not for 
art’s sake, but for love’s. That was the right romantic 
spirit, a little exalte , a little extravagant; but then, he 
was an artist, and had not innumerable artists owed their 
lives’ inspiration to women ? She was glad she had been 
able to help him, to introduce him into a circle that had 
started the ball of success a-rolling for him. She had 
been able to give and he had appreciated the giving, for 
love always seeks self-immolation, and Claudia had 
nothing of the vampire in her composition. Love ! Did 
she love him? Was it not inevitable after her first ex- 
perience that she should be a little uncertain of her 
own feelings? 

“I hoped, I prayed you would turn to me one day 

He doesn’t appreciate you. He takes your beauty and 
your sweetness as his right. Everyone sees it.” 

She was a little startled. So she and Gilbert’s marital 
relations were being discussed just like other couples’ 
in their set. Gilbert’s coldness and neglect were being 
talked about over the teacups of Mayfair. Her pride 
revolted against it, and her half-formed determination to 


TWO IN A STUDIO’ 


189 


console herself like the other women she knew hardened. 
Something that had been pricking her a little ceased to 
do so. She would take the sweets offered her. After all, 
life soon ended — in a tombstone. An epigram she had 
heard a few days previously recurred to her mind : “Let 
every woman see to it that she has a present, so that the 
future may not find her unprovided with a past.” Who 
cared about either her morals or her ethics? She had 
only herself to reckon with. Herself! Well, she would 
consider that another time. 

“We won't discuss him Never. You understand, 

Frank?” 

He had read the sudden tumult of her thoughts. 

“You are still in love with him?” he said jealously. 
“Of course, I know a woman like you must have married 
for love. Tell me — you must answer me this one ques- 
tion, then I will respect your wishes .... Are you ?” 

She did not hesitate, but she made a deliberate pause, 
as though she were finally settling the question with her 
own heart. 

“No, I no longer love him, because the man I loved 
does not exist.... Now go on with the picture. The 
light will soon go, and I want to see it finished. Please.” 

Reluctantly he went back to the easel and took up his 
palette. She stood on the platform, watching him. He 
caught her look and squared his shoulders. 

“This is going to be my best picture,” he said enthu- 
siastically. “Love and beauty! Why, the very worst 
artist would be inspired. I know I can do big things if 
you encourage me.” He stopped, and then came back to 
where she stood. “Claudia, you never acknowledged you 
loved me. Say you do, dearest?” 

His eyes were very beseeching and like a child’s, a 
little distressed at the doubt that had flung its shadows 
across his happiness. 

“Claudia, you do love me ?” 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


190 

"I- — I think I do, Frank. No, you must be content 
with that at present.” She waved him back. 

“But some day you will love me as I love you.” His 
eyes were steady now, and the accent of the voice was 
that of the conquering male. 

She laughed a little uncertainly and a faint flush rose 
to her cheeks. 

“Shall I? Oh, what conceited creatures men are! 
And — I don’t know how much you love me. A woman 
never knows. Now go on with the portrait.” 

As she went down in the lift some time later it stopped 
at the second floor, and to her surprise the gate admitted 
Colin Paton. 

“You !” he exclaimed pleasantly. “And what are you 
doing in Victoria Street?” 

For a moment she had an unpleasant feeling of having 
been caught doing something clandestine, and her reply 
was a little embarrassed. She never remembered to have 
felt quite so before. 

“Didn’t you know that Mr. Hamilton’s studio is up at 
the top ? The portrait, you know.” 

She was very annoyed with herself for the feeling, 
and went on quickly : 

“It was you who begged me to continue the sittings. 
So I have been trying to please you. But it’s very tire- 
some.” 

She wondered what made her tack on the last sentence 
even as she uttered it. Was it because she feared that 
his keen eyes would note her embarrassment? Why did 
she have to be a hypocrite? She was glad when the lift 
stopped and the bright electric light ceased to shine on 
her face. The street was grey and more kindly. 

“Beauty must be penalized some way or another,” he 
rejoined smilingly. “Some women would be only too glad 
to put up with the boredom should a well-known portrait- 
painter beg them to sit.” 


TWO IN A STUDIO’ 


191 


She arranged her veil and looked round for her motor. 

“You don't know his work, do you?” 

The fresh air of the street was refreshing after the 
enervating atmosphere of the studio. 

“I saw some of his pictures the other day at a show. 
It’s clever work.” 

“Not more than that?” Her tone implied that his 
praise was too tepid. 

“Does it quite satisfy you?” 

She was feeling vaguely irritated at the encounter. 
Why did he make her feel uncomfortable, and why did 
he belittle Frank’s work? He was usually generous in 
his praise. Had he any suspicion with regard to their 
friendship? She answered untruthfully, with a touch 
of defiance: 

“Yes, I think it quite satisfies me.” 

“Well, you’re a good judge. Perhaps I’ve lost my 
taste for pictures in the Argentine. Big spaces are apt 
to make you rather intolerant of some so-called ‘artistic’ 
achievements. Genius always stands out, but talent 
somehow gets awfully dwarfed. Don’t you know what I 
mean ?” 

“Well, we’re not in the Argentine. We’re in Victoria 
Street.” No, she would not admit that Frank had only 
talent. 

He laughed and dropped the subject. “I know it well 
by the roar of the buses. I met a fellow out there who 
was desperately homesick, and he confided to me that 
he’d give anything to see the scavengers washing down 
the street as he drove home from the club, and see the 
wet pavement shining under the street lamps. How’s 
Gilbert to-day?” 

“He has gone to his chambers.” 

“What? Why, he was in bed yesterday.” 

“I know.” She shrugged her shoulders under their 
luxurious furs. “But the only thing that counts with 


192 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


Gilbert is his work, you know. He refuses to stop in bed 
any longer.” She looked him straight in the face and 
her eyes were bright and hard. “Tell me something. 
Did you always know that work is the only real thing in 
Gilbert’s life? But, of course, you knew. You see most 
things in your quiet, undemonstrative way.” 

They were standing beside the car. The door was 
open for her to step into it. 

For a moment he was nonplussed. What answer could 
he make to such a question? But while he was groping 
for some words, she held out her hand with a little 
amused, cynical laugh. 

“Yes. I see you did know. You need not tell a 
lie. I think you might have warned me. Good-bye.” 

She left him standing on the pavement, his grey eyes 
troubled and anxious. 

She leaned back and tried to think of Frank and the 
difference his love was going to make in her life. She 
tried to give herself up again to the pleasant feeling of 
being cared for, of being appreciated. She tried to recap- 
ture the thrill his caresses had given her; but she could 
not. She could only see the troubled grey eyes of Colin 
Paton. 

“He’s spoilt my afternoon,” she said angrily to her- 
self as the car sped homewards. “He’s spoilt my after- 
noon. And he is only a dreamer. He has no right to 
judge me.” 

But Colin Paton was not the judge. 


CHAPTER IX 


"melton green” 

S HE’S so keen on your coming,” urged Jack. "She’s 
taken a tremendous fancy to you. And, you know, 
she’s such a kid. She’s no end proud of her turn. You 
must come and see her.” 

“You are aware that my august husband will be very 
displeased should he hear of it,” returned Claudia dryly. 

“Oh! blow Gilbert and his airs! I can’t think how 
you came to marry such a sack of sawdust. I met him 
yesterday and he was as frigid as a frozen leg of mutton. 
.... What’s it got to do with him whom I marry ?” 

A good constitution will stand a great deal, and, con- 
trary to expectations, Gilbert had not had to return 
ignominiously to bed after his rash defiance of the 
doctor’s orders. But he had never recovered, and Claudia 
saw that he was not half the man he had been. But he 
would not admit that he felt ill, and his secret feelings 
only showed themselves in great irritability and an almost 
total ignoring of her presence. 

“If people minded their own business,” said Claudia 
lightly, “this world would be a dull place! It’s family 
friction that keeps us all alive !” 

“Rot ! But Gilbert is too priggish for words. I always 
did hate the Curreys, anyway, and Gilbert was ever a 
193 


194 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


cold-blooded fish.” He cast a curious glance at his 
sister, which she ignored. Sometimes in a dull, un- 
imaginative way he wondered how far emotion now 
played its part in her marriage. But he never asked 
questions, for he was a little afraid of Claudia. “I say, 
come along to-night. It’s Saturday, and that’s a good 
night. You’ve never seen anything like the Empire at 
Melton Green on a Saturday, I bet.” 

“I half promised to make a four at the club,” said 
Claudia indifferently, stroking Billie’s ears. “But Melton 
Green sounds amusing.” 

Gilbert had gone down for the week-end to his parents, 
always a tiresome function to her, and this time he had 
not urged her to accompany him. 

“That’s nothing. I insist on your coming. We’ll dash 
back to the West End between the shows and get some- 
thing to eat. Do, Claud, old girl ; I want you to see how 
popular she is. Why, the gallery boys fairly eat her.” 

“How much is the gallery?” 

“Oh! threepence admission.” Jack grinned. “They 
are a crew, too. They’ll amuse you. You look a bit 
down in the mouth. Fay’ll cheer you up. You can’t be 
blue with her.” 

“I’m not down in the mouth,” contradicted his sister 
untruthfully. “One can’t always be howling with 
laughter. Life isn’t as funny as all that.” 

“Oh! I don’t know. That’s the worst of you brainy 
people. You take life too seriously. What on earth is 
the good of rootling about and trying to find a deep 
meaning in everything? There isn’t any meaning in life. 
You’re just put here to enjoy yourself. A cabbage doesn’t 
think. Why should we?” 

“Yes, I know your theory of life, or rather, your lack 
of one.” Frank had been insinuating the same philosophy 
at their various meetings. She was aware that the in- 
sinuating process had an ulterior motive, for she was 


MELTON GREEN 


195 


unable to deceive herself or walk blindly into the arms 
he held out to her. But so far she had kept him off very 
delicate ground. She knew she could not do so much 
longer, and she wondered at herself that she did not 
capitulate. For more and more her thoughts dwelt on 
those pleasures of which she had been deprived. The 
spring air tantalized her and made the blood run hotter 
in her veins. Nature craved its proper food; youth 
seconded its demands. 

“Chuck this analytical business and take life lightly,” 
urged her brother. “I take life lightly and so does Fay. 
She’s a perfect skylark. Doesn’t look a day ahead or a 
day backwards.” 

“And you counsel me to do likewise — to emulate her 
mode of living?” 

He was lounging in the library of her flat, content with 
himself and all the world. He had borne a lot of “chip- 
ping” on his marriage, which was now dying down. But 
in spite of his lethargic egotism, he caught a look now 
in Claudia’s eyes that made his dull brain work a little. 
What had some woman been saying about Claudia and 
some painter chap? He tried to recall the gossip, but it 
had been late at night and his recollection was vague. 

“In moderation, old girl,” he counselled warily. “Of 
course there are some things you can’t do. But flutter 
a bit if you like.” 

“What sort of things can’t I do ?” asked Claudia, with 
abrupt directness. 

“Oh, don’t peg me down! Well, things I can do, you 
can’t. A girl’s different from a man — at least, you 
are.” 

“The old shibboleth!” she jeered. “We’re not 
different, my dear brother. We’re exactly the same, 
only — only I suppose we’re more fastidious.” 

He was a little alarmed. In the old days Claudia had 
always taken what he called “a high moral tone” in 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


196 

discussing his little peccadilloes. Vaguely he felt that 
this change in her was not right. 

“Is Fay conservative in her opinions on this sub- 
ject?” went on Claudia, with a touch of cruelty. “Does 
she think there are things she can do and you can’t?” 

He winced and uncrossed his legs. “She’s different 
from you,” he said decidedly. “You’re sort of — well, 

superior. I’d hate to think ” He stopped and 

tweaked Billie’s ear. 

“Well, go on. What would you hate?” 

Billie looked at him sadly as he twisted his lips about. 
“Well, er — oh! you know the things I wouldn’t like 
you to do. For some women it’s all right, not for you. 

You see, well, with some women it doesn’t seem 

to matter, it’s natural for them to do a bit of straying, 
but it’s not natural for you, and” — with unexpected 
acuteness — “it would make you miserable. You’d hate 
the game, because you’d see through the whole bally 
business, and you’d criticize yourself and him.” 

“You’re talking of a mere flirtation,” returned Claudia 
quickly. “A liaison between a man and a woman may 
be something more than that. What, after all, is a gold 
band on the finger and a mumbling clergyman?” 

“Course, if you put it that way, I can’t answer you. 
But I don’t say it’s different, only — well, they nearly 
all are flirtations of varying degrees of warmth. You 
don’t mean much to her, and she doesn’t mean much 
to you, but you pretend all the time. Of course” — 
vaguely — “there are grandes passions , like Shakespeare’s 
people, but they don’t grow on every gooseberry-bush. 
And I ought to know, you know.” He made the last 
remark quite simply, just as he might have complimented 
himself on his taste in ties. 

“You haven’t looked for love,” she said sharply. 
“Love may come at any moment in your life, and I 
think you deny it — at your own risk.” 


“MELTON GREEN’’ 197 

“Besides, Gilbert would make a hell of a row,” ob- 
served her brother. “A hell of a row.” 

“I wasn’t talking of myself. We were merely arguing 
in — in a general way.” 

He looked at her in silence, and she turned away, 
biting her lip. Then she rose with a little dry laugh. 
The one man of all those she knew whose tolerance she 
would have taken for granted had failed to back her up. 
Why should she be different from other neglected wives ? 
Why should she go through life hungry and miserable? 
Suddenly she turned in surprise at Jack’s next remark. 

“Why doesn’t Colin Paton get married? He’s a nice 
chap. Everyone speaks well of him.” 

“Colin ? Oh ! I don’t think he cares for women that 
way.” 

Jack gave a lazy chuckle. “All men care for women 
that way — when they can get ’em. Why didn’t you 
marry him Claud ? Why did you give him the go-by ?” 

“The go-by?” she said incredulously. “Why, he never 
wanted to marry me. We were only — friends, the best 
of friends.” 

“I read somewhere in something that friendship is a 
good foundation for marriage. What was the beastly 
quotation ? ‘Love is friendship set on fire.’ It impressed 
me, because Fay and I were awful good chums for 
a long time and we never — never till we were 
married.” 

He said it in a shamefaced way, like a schoolboy con- 
victed of saying his prayers. His face had gone a curious 
pink, and he avoided meeting Claudia’s eyes. 

But she was not thinking of his, confession, she was 
thinking of Colin Paton. Why had he not married? 
Was her easy explanation the right one? Why, no, he 
had never wanted to marry her. 

“You don’t imagine Colin Paton wanted to marry me, 
do you ?” she asked. 


198 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


“Well, I shouldn’t: have been surprised if you and he 
had fixed it up. You used to go about a lot together, 
and you’re not a woman a man would feel platonically 
about. I thought he went away so hurriedly because of 
your engagement. But, of course, you know him much 
better than I.” 

She found the thought curiously interesting and a little 
exciting, even while she tried to dismiss it. He had 
never said a word that could be construed into love- 
making. Surely there would have been some word or 
look that would have betrayed him if it were as Jack 
suggested. 

Jack looked at his watch. “By Jove, we must go if 
we’re going. Come along, old girl, she’s on in the first 
house at eight, and it’s a long drive down there. It’s 
the wilds of beyond, over the river. Go and put on 
something quiet and oldish. There’s a good deal of dust 
knocking about behind the scenes.” 

The drive was, as he had said, a long one, through 
narrow streets and past huge lumbering tramcars that 
were new to Claudia. The streets during the latter part 
if the journey were lined with roadside stalls illuminated 
by flaring naptha lamps that cast weird shadows over 
faces that reminded her of those in Dickens’ novels. 
There were barrows with all kinds of china, stalls brill- 
iantly red with joints of meat, others piled high with 
greenstuff and with trays of toffee and sweets. It seemed 
to Claudia that she had never heard so many hoarse, 
raucous voices before, punctuated every now and then 
by the pipe of some child trying to make itself heard 
among the tumult. Between the activities of the stalls 
they passed rows of grey, grimy little houses, timber- 
yards and factories, brightly-lit public houses, and always 
the trams, still more brilliant, gliding along full of pas- 
sengers, like great ships in full sail. 

She and Jack did not talk intimately any more. She 


“MELTON GREEN” 


199 


listened to his account of a big golfing competition. Only 
once did he revert to their previous conversation. It 
came up apropos of Jack saying that Colin Paton had 
been in up to the last round. 

“He plays such a good, steady game. Upon my word, 
I like to watch him. I say, Claudia, if it were he, instead 
of this painter chap, I wouldn’t mind. But, then, he’s 
Gilbert’s friend, isn’t he?” 

Claudia was spared any reply by the stoppage of their 
car outside a brightly-lit theatre with placards galore. 
She noticed at once several of The Girlie Girl in various 
costumes and various smiles. It was not one of the new 
suburban halls, but there was plenty of light on the 
frontage. 

“Got to find the stage-door,” said Jack. “Here, 
perhaps this is it, up this alley.” 

The alley was dark and very dirty and Claudia held 
up her skirts fastidiously. A boy, with a jug in his 
hand, came running down while they were half-way, and 
a man with a clay pipe came out of a grimy, narrow 
door at the end. 

It was the stage-door. Claudia almost shrank back 
when she saw the narrow passage way with its blackened 
walls and filthy staircase, which she found she was ex- 
pected to descend. The atmosphere was indescribable, 
frowsy, hot and stale. The strains of the orchestra 
reached them intermittently as the doors below were 
opened and shut. 

“You’ll find her down there,” called out the door- 
keeper encouragingly. “She ain’t on yet.” 

The boy had returned with the beer-jug, and the beer 
was being slopped on the stairs as he shoved his way 
past them. A curious roaring sound was in progress 
now, and it took Claudia a little time to realize that it 
was applause from the front of the house. 

She followed Jack down the stairs, and she saw that 


200 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


the dirtiness of his surroundings did not embarrass him. 
Evidently he was used to them. The steps were of stone 
and the railings were iron, and it seemed to Claudia 
like some curious sort of dirty prison, rather than a hall 
of gaiety. 

They arrived at the bottom of the stairs, and looking 
up from the stone steps on which she was afraid her feet 
might slip, she got rather a shock. Standing talking ex- 
citedly were three acrobats with the minimum of clothing, 
the perspiration pouring down over their make-up. It 
was certainly Nature in the raw, and hardly a pleasant 
sight at close quarters. The muscles were standing out 
on their arms and chests, and for the first time Claudia 
realized the work involved in such performances, which 
she usually sat through indifferently. One of them hailed 
Jack enthusiastically. 

“Hallo! old man! Fay was asking if we’d seen you.” 
They cast a curious but not very interested glance at 
Claudia. “Come into our room and have a drink later on.” 

Jack nodded, and Claudia followed him along another 
few yards of the passage. It struck her that most of the 
dirt had been made by human fingers and bodies, for 
above the height of five feet or so the walls were com- 
paratively clean. They passed an open door where a 
stout woman in chemise and petticoat was making-up in 
a public manner before a looking-glass, and then she 
found herself in Fay’s dressing-room. 

It was a small slip of a room, with flaring gas-jets 
protected by Wire shades and two washing-basins inset in 
the table- shelf which went across one side of it. The 
heat in the room took Claudia’s breath away ; it was even 
worse than the passages. The light was almost cruelly 
bright. There were three huge dress-baskets, which 
almost filled the apartment, and a lumpy, perspiring and 
heavily-breathing dresser was sitting on one of them, 
sewing on something spangled. 


“MELTON GREEN 1 


201 


A man was just finishing speaking in a heavy, oily 
voice as Fay’s husband pushed open the door, and Claudia 
was in time to hear Fay say, in accents of excitement and 
pleasure: “Jim, you’re a perfect duck. I love diamonds 
and rubies. Come here and let me give you another kiss 
for it.” 

So it happened that Claudia’s second view of Fay was 
one with her arms flung round something maculine, stand- 
ing on the tips of her toes to do so. Two brawny arms 
were returning her hug. She felt Jack stiffen a little as 
Fay broke loose with a laugh. 

“It’s almost like old times. Oh! but I mustn’t re- 
member them now. I promised. . . . Here he is. Jack, 
come in. I want to introduce you to Jim Clerry — my 
husband.” 

There was not the faintest touch of confusion in Fay’s 
manner or face, any more than with a child who has been 
caught bestowing embraces. She was evidently very 
pleased over something. She was radiant with good 
humour. 

The man, who thrust out his hand and said, “Glad to 
know you sir,” was, in spite of his name, an obvious 
Jew., with heavy, coarse features and almost negroid lips. 
The face was only redeemed by the brightness of the dark 
eyes. To Claudia’s artistic sense it was almost revolting 
that any pretty woman should kiss him, especially any- 
thing so dainty as Fay. She wondered, indeed, that any 
woman could wish to do so. 

In an artificial way, for she was heavily made-up, Fay 
was looking her prettiest. Her great blue eyes sparkled 
under the bunch of pale blue ostrich feathers on her head 
which, with some kind of a gold-lace cap, constituted her 
head-dress. 

“Now, boys, I want you to be friends,” called out 
Fay, picking up a hare’s foot and giving another rub to 
her red cheeks. “I say, what’s the time? Have the 


202 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


performing dogs finished? Oh! Jack, why didn’t you tell 
me?” She rushed over impetuously to the doorway and 
pulled Claudia in. “My dear, this is nice of you. 
I am glad to see you. Sit on this basket. But I wish 
you hadn’t come to this hall. I generally do much more 
classy halls than this, but I have to do this on an old 
contract. I’m working ’em all off now. I wish I were 
doing ‘The Monkey and the Moth’ to-night. Have you 
heard it ? No ? Oh ! it’s a ripping song. Perhaps I’ll 
do it at the second house. Oh ! I’m forgetting my man- 
ners — never shall be a real lady — Mr. Clerry, Mrs. Cur- 
rey, my sister-in-law. Isn’t she lovely?” 

A knotted, hairy and none too clean hand came towards 
her and shook hers like a pump-handle. 

“Good looks run in the family, I should say,” with 
what, to Claudia, was an offensive chuckle. “Well, I’ll 
’op it, Fay. No room for an old mash now. Congrats 
on your marriage. I daresay you were wise to chuck me. 
Anyway, I bear no grudge. So long. Ta-ta, everyone.” 

“Jim, don’t be a fool !” cried Fay, standing on one foot 
like a stork while the dresser laced some ribbons round 
her leg. “You must wait and see my turn.” 

“Got to see a man at the Kilburn Empire. Only came 
along to give you that toy. Ta-ta. Be good, and you’ll 
be happy.” 

With a comprehensive nod he went out, with a curious 
swaggering, swaying movement of the shoulders and hips. 

“Come and see us at the flat,” shouted Fay, standing 
on the other leg. Then to Claudia: “He’s the best clog 
dancer on the Moss and Stoll tour. He’s out this week 
because of the fire last week.” 

A jeweller’s morocco case lay at her elbow, and Jack 
looked at it suspiciously. 

“What’s that, Fay?” 

She opened it with great glee. “The duckiest pendant 
you ever saw.” It was a showy but rather expensive 


MELTON GREEN” 


203 


affair. “It’s jolly nice of Jim under the circs. I’ll wear 
it to-night for luck.” 

Jack took the case away from her. “Fay, you can’t 
accept this. You’re my wife now. Don’t you see it 
isn’t — isn’t the thing. I’ll give you all the pendants you 
want.” 

The blue eyes opened at first in surprise and then grew 
dark and stormy. Her mouth took a curve that spoilt its 
prettiness. 

“Give it back to me at once or you and me’ll have a 
row. Why, they’re real diamonds and rubies. He told 
me he paid twenty-five quid for it wholesale. Think 
you’re going to chuck it in the dust-bin?” Her voice had 
grown a little shrill. Claudia wished she were anywhere 
rather than in the same room, but the dresser looked on 
with frank interest, “a bit of a row” evidently enlivening 
her profession for her. 

“I shan’t chuck it in the dust-bin,” said Jack a little 
sulkily. “You’ve got to send it back to him. She must, 
mustn’t she, Claudia ?” 

“Not much, my dear. And have him give it to some 
other girl? After all, I’ve a right to it. We were great 
pals. I hear he’s taken up with Molly Billington, and I 
won’t see it hung round her fat neck. She’s a beast! 
Why shouldn’t he give me a wedding-present?” 

She made a sudden snatch that reminded Claudia of 
a velvet-pawed cat, and regained possession of it. With a 
laugh of triumph she put it round her neck. 

“I’ll wear it to-night for luck.” Her good temper had 
come back. She danced up to her husband, who was 
standing moodily regarding the mess of make-up ma- 
terials spread on a towel, and held up her lips to him. 

“Don’t be a loony, Jackie boy. It’s all over and done 
with if you’re feeling jealous. I’m good now. I won’t 
take anything more from him. Kiss me.” Yelps and 
howls suddenly assailed their ears. “There! the dogs 


204 


CIRCE'S DAUGHTER 


have finished. Kiss me like a good boy and Til forgive 
you.” She looked up into his face with a delicious mono 
and wink. “I never said any of your girls were not to 
give you presents, though I’d fire them out of the flat 
quick enough. I say ‘Live and let live/ Come on.” 

The tempting mouth and laughing eyes were too much 
for Jack, and he did as she requested, though with a 
rueful look at Claudia that she thought it better to pretend 
not to see. 

“Hope my voice is all right to-night. I ate a lot of 
bloater-paste for tea, and that dries up the voice. Don’t 
you find that? Only it’s a weakness of mine. Mar used 
to say I was weaned on bloater-paste.” She looked in 
the glass anxiously. “Perkins, a wee drop of stout. 
La — la — la — la!” She took the scale with terrific force 
in the small space. “Come in.” This in answer to a 
knock at the door. The fat woman whom they had seen 
next door came hurtling in. Her toilette was a little 
more advanced, but not much. 

“I say, dearie, have you heard about Gertie Lockhart? 
She’s got the rheumatic fever, and they say she won’t 
be able to work for months. We’re getting up a little 
sub. for her. Give me a few bob, my dear.” 

“I should think so,” said Fay emphatically. “Perkins, 
find my purse. I heard she was pretty bad. Rotten 
luck! Here’s half a quid with my love. Oh! Miss Belle 
de Laney — Mrs. Currey. You’ve met my husband, 
haven’t you ?” 

“Charmed to meet you, I’m sure. Fay, where did you 
get them feathers? I’ve been looking out for some like 
that for weeks. I’ve got such a cold I can hardly speak. 
Old Moser’s a bit screwed to-night, ain’t he? Thanks 
muchly, old girl. My ! I wish I could keep my fat down 
like you. Once upon a time — yes, it sounds like a fairy- 
tale, don’t it? — I had legs like hers. Couldn’t fill my 
stockings out properly. Now it’s out-sizes, and the holes 


"MELTON GREEN” 


205 


I wear in ’em!” She nodded confidentially to Claudia. 
"Do you know, I used to play Columbine once; then 
I got to principal boy, and now — well, look at me !” 

"Don’t you worry,” said Fay kindly. "You’ve got a 
fine figure, and no one’ll overlook you. And your song’s 
a treat, a fair treat. Got three curtains last night, didn’t 
you ?” v 

"Yes. Glad you like it. There’s a rattling good ’ouse 
to-night. See you later, Fay.” 

"Used to be one of the prettiest girls on the halls,” 
explained Fay, as Miss Belle de Laney vanished; "used 
to know my mother. She’s a good sort, too. Husband’s 
a swine, and won’t do no work, and she keeps him and 
four kids, and makes no growl about it either. Now, 
Jack, I’m on in a few minutes. Take your sister round 
to the front. Old Moser’ll put you in a box. . . .la, la, la, 
la. . . . H’m !. . . . How do I look? Knock ’em in the Old 
Kent Roadish? Emerald green and orange, my own idea. 
Got it from seeing some oranges lying with the spinach 
in the kitchen. Bit of shick, ain’t it? See the saucy 
garters?” She suddenly bestowed a hug upon Claudia. 
"I like you no end. I watched you just now, and you 
didn’t turn up your nose at Belle. Of course, she’s as 
common as dirt, I know that. Still, I believe in good 
hearts. We’re going to be real sisters, aren’t we? You 
can teach me the ways of high society, because I don’t 
want the boy to be ashamed of me. I’ll catch on quick 
enough if you’ll only give me a few tips, and I can keep 
my mouth shut if I want to.” She turned with a charac- 
teristically quick gesture — she reminded Claudia of an 
active robin — and caught Jack by the lapels of his 
coat. 

"You’re not angry with me, Jumbo, are you? What 
does it matter?” 

"I’m not exactly angry,” said Jack, looking into her 
face, "only, don’t you see, things are different now, and 


206 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


a — a man — can’t give jewellery — to a lady who is — is the 
wife of another man.” 

She raised her eyebrows. “Moses in the bulrushes! 
why not? Most women would like to get the chance 
of having pendants. It’s a souvenny, Jack, for luck. 
And it’s so pretty. I’m straight now all right, so it don’t 
mean nothing. Crikey! that’s his second song. I must 
go down. Perkins, give me my coat. Here” — she rushed 
back again to the table and thrust a bunch of carnations 
into Claudia’s hand — “throw these down to me. It 
looks well. See you afterwards.” 


CHAPTER X 


“the star turn” 

C LAUDIA had never been behind the scenes of a 
theatre, and she found the va et vient, the bustle and 
hurry of a music-hall almost bewildering, so that she 
received the vaguest impressions of her journey through 
to the front. She felt, rather than saw, the gloomy floor 
space behind the set littered with properties, all looking 
very ludicrous and childish. A man was evidently doing 
a song and patter turn to judge from the guffaws from 
the front of the house. She could see above her head 
men up in the flies controlling the limelight and the cur- 
tain, all of whom were in their shirt-sleeves. In fact, 
Jack was the only conventionally dressed person she had 
seen since she entered the theatre. 

She was hurried along to a small door, which she found 
gave access to the house — Jack was evidently known to 
the man in charge, who nodded familiarly and called him 
“Capting” — and having descended some dusty, red- 
covered steps, she found herself suddenly in a little box 
in full view of the audience. Her first impression was 
that she had never seen so many people so tightly squeezed 
together before, and so intent on the comedian with the 
red nose and battered silk hat who was holding forth 
207 


208 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


from the middle of the stage. All the theatres she had 
ever seen had been more or less roomy, but these people 
reminded her of an old-fashioned solid bouquet, except 
that there was practically no colour in the house. In a 
West-End theatre various bits of colour strike the eye, 
especially in the stalls and dress-circle ; but as the curtain 
descended to great applause she saw that the house was 
a study in black and white — the clothing black, the faces 
white. There must have been some bits of colour, but 
they did not show. Her second impression was that she 
had never before realized how toiling humanity in a mass 
can smell. It was the odour of toil and scanty bathing, 
mingled with the inevitable orange and the reek of gas. 

A number went up in the slot at the side — twelve — 
the star turn of the evening, The Girlie Girl. 

The orchestra struck up one of her popular songs, and 
the audience, and especially the gallery boys — they 
looked to Claudia as though they were hanging on the 
ceiling by their eyelashes like flies — began to cheer and 
beat time to the music. She happened to glance at Jack, 
and she was amused to see a complacent smile taking the 
place of the dumbly-worried look he had been wearing 
since the episode of the pendant. 

“They adore her,” he whispered. “She believes in 
making friends with the gallery boys. She says it’s the 

secret of her success I say, Claud, what could I 

do about that beastly pendant? She doesn’t see things 
as we do. She’s like a blessed babe, or a savage, in some 
things.” 

A huge burst of cheering stopped any further con- 
versation, and Claudia found herself looking down at her 
sister-in-law laughing and kissing her hands to the gallery. 
In the limelight she looked extraordinarily pretty and 
alive, and there was no man present that could have 
failed to see the gamine charm of her, though he might 
not have wanted to espouse her. Her blue eyes laughed 


THE STAR TURN 5 


209 


in a friendly fashion at the house and her pretty feet 
began to dance to the measure while she waved aloft a 
sort of d’Orsay walking-stick tied up with green and 
orange ribbons. 

Her voice, though sweet — unusually sweet for the 
music-halls — was nothing wonderful, and Claudia de- 
tected already signs of hard wear. She had a few par- 
ticularly good notes in her top register, but it was not 
for her voice that she was so applauded. There was an 
air of infectious gaiety, a “I-like-you-and-you-like-me” 
camaraderie that made the vapid song and words — how 
incredibly bad the words were !t — seem amusing. 

The song was all about a ladybird and a rose in an 
old-fashioned garden. The rose was sweet and innocent, 
and the ladybird “knew a bit.” It was neither funny 
nor frankly improper; but the audience roared with 
laughter, especially when she completed each verse with 
a huge wink. At the end of the song she threw a kiss 
deliberately up to their box, which made the entire audi- 
ence turn and look at them, and reduced Claudia to a 
state of helpless and fiery embarrassment. 

“All right, boys, it’s my husband,” called out the Girlie 
Girl, with a chuckle, as she departed into the wings. 
There followed a burst of yelling, cat-calling and clap- 
ping, with cries of “Good luck !” “Send us a bit of cake, 
Girlie,” “Keep him in order,” “Wish you joy!” 

Claudia was sorry she had not put on a veil or a more 
shady hat. She knew that her face was scarlet. She 
had never been in such a scene in her life, and she took 
no pleasure in being conspicuous at any time. Jack was 
looking sheepish, but evidently he was more used to such 
things. 

The audience went on singing the chorus of her last 
song while Fay was changing in the wings. Then the 
orchestra struck up another tune as she appeared in a 
smart little vivandtere costume of blue, with red facings, 


210 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


and a cap that was stuck coquettishly sideways on her 
hugh bunch of curls. This time she led the singing of 
the chorus from the stage, every now and then ceasing to 
sing herself, and beating time with encouraging gestures 
to the rather hoarse, flat voices of the crowd. It was a 
wonderful sight to Claudia, who was so fascinated that 
she forgot her embarrassment and leaned forward. As 
she looked round the house all the lips seemed moving — 
men and women, boys and children. 

The audience would not part with her, and after taking 
eight curtains she came back to sing the last verse once 
more. 

‘‘Now boys, I want you to sing loudly this time. Let’s 
raise the roof and take the slates off. Shan’t be coming 
to Milton Green for a long time. Don’t whisper — sing. 
All of you sing, Tom and Bill, and Kate and Mary. Sing 
out as you would if you got your wages doubled to- 
morrow. Now ” 

“I’m one of the King’s little drummer-boys, 

And I serve. . . .” 

The packed audience positively yelled, and Fay laugh- 
ing, kept on encouraging them with remarks : 

“Go it, boys ! . . . . It’s a cure for sore throats .... 
Get it off your chests .... Bill, you’re not opening your 

mouth wide enough; no flies to-night Mary, a 

bit louder ” 

Then how the tragedy happened no one ever quite 
understood. Fay was laughing and kissing her little 
hands up to the gallery, as alive as a piece of quicksilver, 
when the heavy curtain came down suddenly, and before 
anyone could shout, struck her. Claudia, who had risen 
in horror, caught a look of almost childish surprise in the 
blue eyes before Fay lay flattened out on the ground 
the two pretty arms thrown out helplessly in front of her, 
the curtain, as it were, cutting her in two. 


“THE STAR TURN” 


21 1 


For a moment there was a horrible awed hush ; then a 
woman in the audience gave vent to a piercing shriek, 
and immediately a tumult of cries and shouts filled the 
auditorium. Claudia, who had been almost stunned by 
the suddenness of the thing, had just time to see the men 
fighting their way to the front, apparently with some 
vague idea of raising the curtain off the little body, 
when she saw the curtain move up a few inches and half 
a dozen hands gently drag the body behind it. She 
turned to Jack. He was staring down at the stage, his 
face ashen grey, his eyes starting out of his head. But 
he made no movement to go to his wife. 

“Jack,” she panted, “we must go round. Quick! 
Don’t you want to get to her. 

Still he did not move, nor did he seem to hear her. He 
was still staring down at the stage. 

“Jack!” she shook his arm. “Rouse yourself! Come 
quick!” 

He seemed to awaken with a shudder, and she drew 
him into the shadow of the box. 

“I can’t,” he said, with dry lips and shaking from 
head to foot. “I can’t Is she dead?” 

Claudia was unaware of the great weight of the cur- 
tain, and tried to speak encouragingly. 

“No, no, of course not. . . . Jack, you must go to her.” 

“I can’t stand things like that,” he whispered, passing 
his hand over his clammy forehead. “You know I never 
could.... Oh, my God! she’s dead! Fay’s dead, and I 
saw her killed !” 

Claudia remembered that he never could stand ugly 
sights or any kind of illness or decay. His ordinary good- 
nature entirely deserted him at such times. He had re- 
fused to go and see an old schoolfellow in his last illness, 
and had always tried to escape visiting his grandmother, 
who had died slowly of cancer. 

“Jack, you must!” cried Claudia hotly, propelling him 


212 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


to the door. “Don’t be a coward. Perhaps she’s only 
stunned and wants you. You’ve got to play the man, 
or I’ll never speak to you again.” 

Even the biting contempt in her voice did not rouse 
him; but he allowed himself to be dragged like one in a 
dream through the door and up the red stairs. 

“For the sake of your manhood and the honour of 
the Iversons, if not for poor Fay, pull yourself together,” 
said Claudia sharply, as they stepped upon the stage. 

A group of men were bending down over something 
that had been laid on a pile of coats. Others were crowd- 
ing together, talking in excited, frightened whispers. 
The stout lady came rushing on the stage, sobbing hyster- 
ically and wringing her red hands. The orchestra com- 
menced to play again. 

A man came pushing his way after them through the 
door from the auditorium. Accustomed as she was to 
the conventional garb of West End physicians, Claudia 
was surprised to hear this man in a pepper-and-salt suit 
say : “I’m a doctor. Let me go to her.” 

Jack was still dazed. With a last glance of contempt at 
him, Claudia went forward and took command of the 
situation. “Please, doctor, do all you can. I am her 
sister-in-law. Tell me what we should do.” 

She followed him towards the little group, inwardly 
shrinking and desperately frightened, but outwardly 
calm and collected. She stood with the stage hands, as 
one of them. She could see by their faces that they feared 
a bad verdict. | 

Various hoarse whispers reached her while she waited, 
feeling as though the world had suddenly turned topsy- 
turvy. 

“ The next turn can’t go on Let the or- 
chestra play Tell the audience she isn’t badly hurt 

turned my blood cold Hadn’t time to shout 

.... Who dropped the damned thing? Must have 


“THE STAR TURN” 213 

broken her spine Rather anyone than The Girlie 

Girl.” 

The doctor had risen from his examination and was 
coming towards her. She nerved herself for a shock; 
but she could hear her own heart thumping against her 
ribs. 

“Not — not ” She could not get the words out of 

her dry lips. 

The doctor gravely shook his head. “No, she's alive. 
Bad injury to the spine, I should say. Get her to a 
hospital” — then taking in the quality of the woman who 
had said she was the sister-in-law — “or to her home at 
once and call in a specialist.” 

Claudia read the look in his eyes, which was com- 
pounded of pity and deep emotion. She had seen that 
look once in the eyes of a man who had been entrusted 
with the task of breaking the news of her husband’s 
death to a poor woman on their country estate. 

“Is she — very bad?” she whispered. “Will she die?” 

“I’m afraid not — yet.” 

Claudia reeled up against a piece of scenery. She never 
forgot that moment. The orchestra playing a rag-time 
melody, the stout woman sobbing, the regret in the eyes 
of the doctor. 

“You mean ” 

“It’s not likely she will ever move off her bed again. 
She’s paralysed.” 


CHAPTER XI 
“out at sea” 

S UCH confusion as existed in Fay’s flat that night 
Claudia had never conceived possibly. Life in 
Circe’s household had been somewhat erratic occasion- 
ally, but there had been a sort of order in the disorder, 
and a certain peaceful current had always flowed over 
internal convulsions. But in Fay’s home everything in, 
the way of discipline and order — if there ever were any — 
fell to pieces when she was carried home unconscious. 
The two domestics wailed and sobbed — Polly at first went 
into hysterics, and had to have cold water thrown over 
her — the telephone bell went incessantly, and almost be- 
fore Fay had been put to bed by Claudia, newspaper re- 
porters filled the hall with insistent inquiries. 

Claudia, though she kept her head pretty well and 
controlled the panic in her heart, had always been ac- 
customed to have competent underlings to do things for 
her, and she did not know what ought to be done in such 
a crisis, what specialist should be fetched, and where to 
obtain a nurse at a minute’s notice. 

It was Colin Paton who came to the rescue in answer 
to her telephone inquiries, and reduced order out of 
chaos. 


214 


OUT AT SEA” 


215 


Directly she saw him walk into the hall Claudia felt a 
sense of instant relief. In a few minutes the reporters 
had all gone, the telephone-bell rang no more, and the 
specialist and nurse were on their way. No one seemed 
surprised that he should take command, the servants 
obeyed him without a query. He seemed to have an 
almost mesmeric calming effect on everyone. 

“ Where’s your brother?” he asked, as soon as he had 
a moment to spare for essentials. 

“He’s shut himself in the dining-room.” She told 
him of his attitude. 

"It’s partly physical, just as some men — the bravest — 
cannot stand the sight of blood. But I must talk to 
him.... Claudia, you are dead tired. There’s nothing 
more to be done at the moment. She’s still unconscious.” 
The clock in the room struck eleven, and she dropped 
wearily into a chair. His keen eyes suddenly took on 
a tenderness that she did not see as they searched her 
drawn face. “Have you had a meal this evening?” 

She shook her head without raising her eyes, for she 
suddenly felt a weak sort of feeling, so that she was 
afraid if she looked up and met his gaze the tears would 
come running down her cheeks. He would despise her 
for such an exhibition, but everything — everything 
seemed so wrong and miserable. 

“Then you’ll have one at once Yes, I know you 

feel as if you can’t eat, but you must.” He put his hand 
on her shoulder, and there was something so sympathetic 
and yet so invigorating in his touch that she felt new 
courage flow into her veins. She did not know that the 
sight of two tears that would escape down her cheeks 
ere she could overcome her weakness nearly unnerved 
him, and made the cheap tawdry little room suddenly 
blur before his eyes. 

What he said to Jack, Claudia never knew, but ten 
minutes later Jack came out of the dining-room looking 


2l6 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


like a whipped cur, but holding his head with a certain 
forced rigidity, and his lips were steady as he said to 
her: 

“Claudia, is there anything I can do? I’ve been a 
beast, I know. Shall I” — he could not control a/ wince 
of repugnance — “shall I go to her?” 

She told him that she was still unconscious. “But 
when she recovers, if she asks for you, you must go to 
her.” 

“Yes, I will, I will. Only, Claud, for God’s sake 
don’t go away and leave us to-night. I couldn’t stand 
that.” 

Claudia looked at Paton inquiringly. Everyone seemed 
to be doing that to-night. There was a slight pink- 
ness of her eyes, and somehow, to Paton, it gave her 
a new and rather pathetic character. The dark eyes were 
very heavy but curiously beautiful in the white face, 
and the hard brilliancy that had characterized them re- 
cently had temporarily vanished. 

“I’ll stay, too, if you wish,” said Paton simply, “but in 
case she recovers consciousness she might like to see a 
woman she knows as well as her nurse. A woman is 
always such a comfort to another in time of illness, don’t 
you think?” 

“I hardly know,” admitted Claudia, trying to force 
some soup down her throat, “you see, I’ve never been 
in contact with such things as — grave illnesses. Of 
course I’ll stay.” 

The specialist had arrived by this time, and Paton 
left the brother and sister together. Claudia tried to 
comfort him as she would have a child. 

“I don’t mean to be heartless,” blubbered Jack, his 
face working pitiably, “only you don’t know how I feel. 
.... I do love her. . . . I’m sorry I was so cross about 
the pendant. She put it on for luck Oh, God!” 

It struck Claudia what a ridiculously immature coup';*.* 


OUT AT SEA* 


217 


Fay and Jack were. They were small ships that should 
have kept near shore, and now Destiny had blown them 
suddenly out to sea. And she herself was tacking about 
in the wind, blown this way and that, and finding no place 
where she might safely anchor. Somewhere at the back 
of her nind she knew Frank Hamilton was no permanent 
anchorage for any woman. Surely, the children of Circe 
were not the luckiest of mortals ! 

It seemed ages before Paton came back to them. Jack 
wlas drinking himself into a fuddled state, and Claudia 
was too anxious herself to keep watch over him. After- 
wards she realized that she could have written an inven- 
tory of that commonplace room. 

His face told them that he had no good news before 
he spoke. 

“Tell us the worst,” said Jack thickly, “always better 
to know everything.” 

“The medical verdict is paraphlegia. Fatal injury to 
the nerves at the base of the spine.... She’s coming 
round now. She can’t feel any pain, that’s one blessing, 
poor child.” 

“That means — she is paralysed ?” whispered Claudia. 

“From the waist downwards she may live for some 

time. I think, Claudia, it would be kind of you to go to 
her. The strange nurse might frighten her. I don’t think 
we ought — to tell her there’s no hope. The doctor says it 
is always better in such cases to let the patient think she 
will recover. Keeps the mind from dwelling on the in- 
evitable. You understand, Jack?” 

Jack nodded, and then dropping his head on his hands, 
commenced to cry. 

“My little Fay Never to dance again. I can’t 

believe it Never still from morning till night 

I’m sorry I was cross about the pendant. ...” 

Claudia stole softly into the garish, pretentious bedroom 
that seemed to mock them all with its air of coquetry. 


2l8 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


The nurse had reduced it to something like order, but 
the thousand and one knickknacks were still lying about, 
and Claudia found the pale blue satin bows odious. Two 
tiny white satin slippers were on a chair. Claudia averted 
her eyes from them. They would never dance gleefully 
any more. 

She found Fay lying with her blue eyes fixed wonder- 
ingly on the nurse, who was trying to induce her to take 
a restorative. 

“Why are you here?” she was saying wonderingly. 
“You’re a real nurse, aren’t you? I don’t understand. 
Why am I — Oh!” She gave a cry of relief at the sight 
of Claudia that accomplished the conquest of her sister- 
in-law’s heart. “You’ll tell me. I like you. What’s 
the matter? Oh! I do feel that tired, too tired to move !” 

“Don’t you remember, dear, the curtain came down 
and hit you. You — you fainted, you know. We thought 
we’d get a nurse, because you — you’ll have to stop in 
bed and rest for a while, and nurses know how to make 
one so comfortable, don’t they?” 

Her eyes jumped and snapped. “I’ll? Me ill? Good 
gracious! then I can’t play next week at Shepherd’s 
Bush? I say, I must let them know at once. I’m topping 
the bill, and ” 

“Don’t worry about that,” said Claudia soothingly, 
“we’ll arrange that for you.” 

Fay was silent for quite a minute, and Claudia 
wondered of what she was thinking, but she did not dare 
to inquire. What was going on in that unformed, un- 
reflective brain ? Had she any suspicion ? 

“I heard of a man being struck by a curtain once,” she 
said suddenly. “I must claim damages immediately. You 
instruct Samuels. . . . The pendant didn’t bring me luck, 
after all. . . . I ought to get heavy damages. I’ll talk to 
Samuels about it to-morrow.” 


CHAPTER XII 


ASHES 



HE following Monday morning brought an ugly 


X scene with Gilbert, who learned not only the tragic 
and sensational news from the daily paper, but his wife’s 
part in it. For somehow the reporters had found out 
that she was present at the performance, and “the beauti- 
ful Mrs. Currey” was credited in one sensational rag 
with having “dashed forward heroically to try and save 
her sister-in-law, The Girlie Girl, from the impact of the 
curtain.” Claudia had not reckoned for this notoriety, 
and if Gilbert had shown any human sympathy with poor 
Fay she would have forgiven his ebullition of temper as 
excusable under the circumstances. 

“You deliberately took advantage of my being in the 
country to frequent low music-halls with this woman,” 
he flung at her, his eyes bloodshot with anger. 

Claudia controlled her rising anger. “I went on the 
spur of the moment, Gilbert. Jack came in to fetch me 
on Saturday afternoon.” 

“I suppose you’ve been planning it for some time,” he 
sneered. “It was a nice thing to have to explain to my 


219 


220 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


father and mother. My mother! who has never been 
in a music-hall in her life.” 

“Perhaps it would do her good if she had.... You 
talk as if I knew what was going to happen.” 

“Scandal on scandal!” 

“Scandal! Is that all you can call it?” cried Claudia, 
a picture of Fay, so pitifully flattened out under the 
curtain, rising before her eyes. “Do you realize that 
she is paralysed for life — that everything is finished for 
her ?” 

“It’s a pity she wasn’t killed outright,” returned 
Gilbert callously, “instead of remaining a disgrace to the 
family. But my mother warned me long ago,” he added 
injudiciously, almost beside himself with rage, for now 
these paroxysms grew on him and contorted any sense 
of fairness or kindness that had ever been in his 
composition. 

“Of what did your mother warn you?” said Claudia, 
her nostrils dilating, her eyes flashing. “Of marrying 
vie? I insist on an answer.” 

“This isn’t the first scandal in your family, is it? I’m 
not throwing your mother’s sins up against you, you are 
not responsible for her; but why on earth have you got 
the same flair for the sensational? You’ve deliberately 
courted this by going to see this — this woman.” 

“Don’t call her ‘this woman,’ as though she were a 
leper,” said Claudia passionately. “She’s earned her liv- 
ing by hard work ever since she was fourteen years old. 
How many women can boast of that? What if she 
hasn’t led a conventional life? A good many women 
Whom you shake by the hand are a good deal less virtuous, 
and certainly far less honest. Because she hasn’t dodged 
behind a wedding-ring or covered up her tracks you look 
upon her with contempt. And even if she were the most 
unscrupulous, mercenary creature alive, you might be 
sorry now. Twenty-two, and life over for her!” To 


‘ASHES’ 


221 


Claudia, with her Grecian appreciation of youth and life, 
this seemed a tragedy of tragedies. Once, as a child, 
when a gambolling puppy from the stables had got under 
the wheels of the brougham and been killed she had wept 
for days, and as she had looked down at the little fat 
white body that would never frisk any more, she had 
learned a lesson never to be forgotten. The puppy had 
taught her early to see the inestimable boon of youth and 
life. To be alive, to have all one’s faculties and powers 
of enjoyment, that is the great gift of the gods, she had 
told herself then. There had always been something of 
the pagan in her, and she had ever refused to believe that 
death is the gate of Life. 

“So you are sprouting the modern jargon, are you?” 
said Gilbert angrily. “Listen, Claudia. You married 
me, and you must respect my name. I thought you were 
different from the women in your set, or I should not have 
married you. Apparently you are not different, but I 
am different from the husbands of those women. You’d 
better remember that. I allow you to go your own way, 
I give you perfect liberty, but on condition that you do 
not drag my name into club smoking-rooms and smart 
restaurants. There has never been a breath of talk about 
my mother, and there shall not be about my wife. If you 
want that kind of notoriety — you will not remain my 
wife.” 

Claudia stood motionless, listening to this outburst, very 
erect, her head thrown up, her neck making a beauti- 
ful but disdainful line with her chin. A sarcastic, enig- 
matic smile played round her sensitive mouth, and her 
eyes were cold and keenly critical. She had suddenly 
seen the coarseness of his lips, the deadly, soul-destroying 
coldness of his self-satisfied, sombre eyes. He was merely 
a male, a high-handed, aggressive male, with the highly 
specialized brain of a lawyer. Heart? When had he 
ever shown any heart? She had never once touched his 


22T, 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


heart, only his senses. His feeling for his mother and 
father was only a sort of clannish family pride. Why, 
even Jack’s love for Fay, lacking as it was in all the big 
qualities that make love worth while, was a much finer 
thing than Gilbert’s feeling for her. For a moment a 
revulsion of shame, a feeling of humiliation swept over 
her at the thought of what she had given him. 

“If you were not afraid of being laughed at, of being 
made to look small, you wouldn’t care a jot what I did, 
would you?” she said with deadly precision. “You 
have a profound contempt for women, haven’t you? 
lYou married me for my looks, because I aroused your 
passion, because it is the general habit of man to instal 
a woman in his home. I am installed here and I have 
the privilege of calling myself Mrs. Currey; otherwise, 
had I been a woman of lower station and more easy 
virtue, you would have fired me out long ago, wouldn’t 
you? I am to live on the ashes of your passion — I, a 
woman with no children! You are asking too much, my 
husband. As for that poor, maimed child, I shall go to 
her as often as she wants me.” 

She was surprised, when he had gone, at the calmness 
with which she could turn to her ordinary occupations. 
She felt anger, contempt, the sting of her own humilia- 
tion, but he had no longer the power to wound her heart. 
She remembered the time — was it ages ago or only a 
year or so? — when, after an altercation or lack of re- 
sponse on his part, she had fled to her room and sobbed or 
brooded until she had made herself ill. Then her being 
had been shaken to its foundations, and she had felt the 
results on her nervous system for days. 

But this morning, once the fierce blaze of her anger 
had burned out, she shrugged her shoulders and sat down 
to her escritoire. She must make her life without Gil- 
bert. To allow a man she neither loved nor respected to 
destroy her balance would be a sign of weakness. 


'ASHES” 


223 


She was organizing, with Colin Paton, a concert in aid 
of a home for Penniless Gentlewomen, a charity which 
had always aroused her sympathy, and there was a good 
deal to be done. She was herself feeing Mrs. Milton to 
sing, and she had promised to come in that morning and 
give her some advice on the other artistes to be engaged. 

It was not long before the maid showed her into her 
boudoir, but a much smarter-looking woman than she had 
been at Mrs. Rivington’s party. Claudia had contrived 
to make her accept one or two modish dresses without 
hurting her feelings or her dignity, and she had also 
secured her several lucrative engagements. It is needless 
to say that Margaret Milton’s generous heart held almost 
an adoration for Claudia. 

“I hope I’m not late,” she said, as she came into the 
room, “but I had to do a little grave-digging before I 
could get away. Ugh! I thought the whole neighbour- 
hood would be poisoned, the monkeys!” 

Claudia laughingly inquired whose grave she had been 
digging. 

“You must know that a favourite cat died about a 
month ago, and was gathered to — the other cats in limbo. 
I allowed the children to bury it in the back garden — quite 
deep — and erect a tombstone. This morning, just as I 
was coming out, I became aware of an awful effluvia in 
the house. I wondered if the drains had suddenly gone 
wrong, and rushed round distraught. I found it was 
worse at the back of the house. Then I looked out of 
the window and saw ” 

“No!” 

“Yes. They had disinterred the cat to see how 'she 
was getting on.’ ” 

After they had both laughed over the children’s enter- 
prise, they got to work. Claudia asked her opinion about 
an accompanist. 

“Lucy Hamilton used to accompany most sympa- 


224 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


thetically, but — no — I , don’t suppose she would have 
decent clothes to come up in, and I daresay she may not 
have kept up her music.” 

“Lucy Hamilton,” repeated Claudia, “not a sister 
of ?” 

“Yes, Frank’s old-maid sister. Poor Lucy! She had 
such talent, and she was sacrificed to him right along.” 

Claudia pondered a minute. “Does she still live 
somewhere in the country?” 

“Salisbury. Yes, she gives music-lessons at a shilling 
an hour ! It must be torture to her. Her old mother and 
she live in a tiny home together.” 

“But, Mrs. Milton,” said Claudia, bewildered, “are 

they as poor as all that? How can they be when ?” 

She stopped, and then she decided to put the question 
that had been on her lips. “Will she not accept help 
from her son Frank?” 

“Oh, yes ! he does help her — a little.” Then she con- 
tinued thoughtfully: “It does seem wrong, doesn’t it, 
that people won’t pay for pictures nowadays. I suppose 
we shall soon have no artists.” 

Claudia stared. “But he gets big prices now for his 
pictures. A couple of years ago, I know, he was nearly 
starving, but he gets his own prices now.” 

It was Mrs. Milton’s turn to look startled. For the 
moment she had forgotten that Claudia and he were 
friends. She tried to gloss over what might have been 
an indiscretion. 

“I’m glad to hear it; perhaps — no doubt he will be 

able to help them more soon I think Miss Ronald 

would accompany splendidly, and I’ve got her address 
at home.” 

“Mrs. Milton,” went on Claudia, a curious expressipn 
in her eyes, “have you heard from this Lucy Hamilton 
recently? And has — Mrs. Hamilton been a good mother 
to him — them both ?” 


‘ASHES” 


225 


“I heard from Lucy only yesterday. I wanted her to 
come up for a change — you can’t think how she revels in 
a few concerts, it’s a joy to take her, and I can always 
get tickets — but her own words were: ‘I’m much too 
shabby to come to town; such a lot of pupils owe me 
money, and mother’s illness in the winter was expensive.’ ” 
She did not add that the writer had gone on to say that 
her brother did not like her to some to towii unless she 
was decently dressed, and that though he was getting on 
and acquiring reputation, he could not at the moment 
help them more than he was doing. 

‘As for Mrs. Hamilton being a good mother,” went on 
Mrs. Milton, “she’s been one of the best. Her husband 
was a small solicitor and left them very badly off. It 
was she who screwed the money out of the housekeeping 
that Frank should go to Paris and study painting. Lucy, 
who was just as clever at music, had to teach herself. 
I do hope, now he is getting on, that Frank will make 
their lives easier.” 

“You don’t like him?” said Claudia abruptly. There 
was a subtle something in Mrs. Milton’s tone that con- 
vinced her. 

Mrs. Milton hesitated. 

“You can speak quite honestly. Why not? You knew 
him for some years, did you not?” 

“Yes, we lived next door to them in the High Street 
for years .... I think artists are always rather egotistical 
and selfish, don’t you? His mother adored him, and 
perhaps that doesn’t do a man any good. I want my boys 
to have happy memories of their youth and me, but I do 
try not to spoil them. I try and remember that they will 
be husbands to some nice girls later on. He always let her 
do all the giving one shouldn’t give too much, how- 

ever much one loves. One should insist on some ex- 
change, if only for the sake of the loved one.” 

“And yet” said Claudia, scrawling weird figures on 


226 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


the blotting-pad, “they say that the ideal love means self- 
sacrifice, that true happiness is to be found in giving.” 

“But it isn’t an ideal world in which we live, is it?” 
said Mrs. Milton gently. “Isn’t that sometimes a form of 
selfishness? I know by experience with the children 
that it’s often the tempting path, ‘the easiest way,’ but 
if one really loves the little minds and hearts, one must 
sometimes bear the tears and the sulks that follow when 
you are firm. You’ll know that one day, when you have 
children of your own.” 

“And with men and women?” 

“Many women, I think, have made themselves and 
their men unhappy by giving too much and too freely. It’s 
become a habit with women. We can’t stand their frowns 
and their tempers. But I’m sure it’s a mistake. My 
husband is the dearest of men, but at the beginning of 
our life together I nearly became a doormat — just of my 
own accord. . . . Shall we fix on Miss Ronald?” 

They worked steadily for half an hour, when there was 
a loud commotion on the stairs. It startled Margaret 
Milton, but Claudia knew the cause. Pat had lately acquired 
a huge puppy sheepdog, with the result that her arrival 
was always somewhat like that of a circus in full swing. 

Pat and the dog, who had been christened Socrates 
because he was such a fool, came tumbling in together. 

“He’s chawed up half a mat downstairs while I was 
using your telephone, Claudia. How do you do, Mrs. 
Milton. Allow me, Mrs. Milton — Socrates. Socky, go 
and lie down and take a short snooze. He’s the terror of 
Mayfair. He upset two children and a mail-cart this 
morning, and he’s been in the Round Pond and splashed 
me from head to foot. How’s poor little Fay getting 
on?” 

“No change,” said Claudia, with a sigh. “I’m going 
down there after lunch.” 

Pat drew in her breath. “Heavens! if anything like 


‘ASHES” 


227 


that should happen to me, I’d go mad! I should yell 
the house down. She must know something. It’s a fort- 
night now. She must suspect something.” 

“Sometimes I wonder,” said Claudia. “Sometimes I 
think I see panic in her eyes, then the next moment she’s 
asking me a conundrum she’s found in some penny jour- 
nal and roaring with laughter at my wild guesses. She 
talks about getting up soon — she’s had the piano taken in, 
and yesterday she was singing ‘to keep her voice from 
getting mildewy/ but — I don’t know. If she knows — 
if she’s got any suspicion, she’s the pluckiest little soul 
I’ve ever known.” 

After that first awful night, it had become a practice 
for her to go down to the flat almost daily, each time de- 
vising some fresh forms of amusement — Fay was like 
a child — and directing the domestic machinery, which 
was now much smoother. The clinging helpless hands 
of Fay gave her a strange feeling, and a curious bond had 
sprung up between them. To Fay, Claudia, with her 
education and culture, was something wonderfully clever, 
something she had never known, something that made 
her long, in her generous, undisciplined heart, to emulate, 
to grow into. She considered Claudia’s knowledge of 
books and pictures amazing. She told all her fellow- 
professionals who flocked to see her — and they were a 
strange, bizarre crowd — that her sister-in-law was the 
most wonderful and splendid lady in the world, and when 
Jack occasionally talked carelessly of his sister, she was 
roused to such volleys of wrathful words that the nurse 
had to ask him not to excite her. In all her moods — 
sometimes babyish, when she would play with dolls and 
mechanical toys ; sometimes fretful, when nothing pleased 
her and she wailed to get well ; sometimes optimistic and 
full of ideas for new turns and songs — Claudia was al- 
ways wanted and loudly welcomed. Fay did not always 
want Jack— perhaps she divined something of his repug- 


228 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


nance to sickness — she did not always want her “pals,” but 
she always listened eagerly for Claudia’s step in the hall, 
and if she did not come, sent the nurse to the telephone. 

Soon after, Mrs. Milton took her departure. 

Pat sat in a low chair, her long legs sprawling half 
across the room. For a long time neither of them spoke. 
Claudia stood gazing out of the window across the Park. 
The trees were gloriously green now, and like fluttering 
heralds of summer, brilliant in the sunlight. The sun 
touched the gilt of the Albert Memorial so that it mingled 
with the tender greens and almost reconciled her to it. 
She was thinking of Mrs. Milton’s story of Hamilton’s 
mother and sister. She knew her statement was correct. 
She knew several large cheques had been despatched to 
him by people with whom she had brought him in touch. 
Was he — she shrank from the word like a loathsome 
disease — was he mean ? He had evidently not wished 
to renew his acquaintance with Mrs. Milton that night 
at the Rivingtons. Why? Did he desire to forget his 
small beginnings — the obligations of which she must have 
reminded him? It was a corroding idea, and Claudia 
was glad when Pat commenced to speak in a — for her — 
thoughtful tone. 

“I must be a throw-back. That’s the explanation al- 
ways trotted out nowadays, isn’t it?” 

“A throw-back, Pat? What on earth are you talking 
about?” She turned and looked at the fresh, boyish 
face, the slim, long limbs, the sophisticated and yet inno- 
cent eyes of her sister. 

“We’re a funny family, aren’t we? We’ve just dragged 
overselves up anyhow. I went to a lecture on heredity 
the other day. What do we inherit, I asked myself? 
Father’s an invertebrate jellyfish, and mother — well, 
mother’s Circe ! Grandfather, on mother’s side, is a gay 
old dog ..still, and father’s father was a leader of lost 


“ASHES” 


22 9 


causes and died young. Bit of a jumble, isn’t it? I’ve 
been puzzling over it for days. I heard someone say of 
you the other day — of course, they were discussing you 
in connection with The Girlie Girl — ‘she’s Circe’s 
daughter.’ We’re both Circe’s daughters, and I’m not a 
bit like her. I say, I’m a throw-back somewhere. Mother 
always cared for men, never for women. I don’t care a 
scrap for men in any sexual way — oh, yes ! don’t look so 
wise, I’ve experimented in a few flirtations — and I simply 
hate them — that way. I like hunting with them and 
playing golf and wading in the water, fishing, but 
directly they get sentimental and want to kiss me I curl 
up inside. Most girls, I’ve found out, like being kissed, 
even if they are not in love. I nearly murdered Dicky 
Trevor the other day because he kissed me unexpectedly 
on the nape of the neck. No, Circe hasn’t given me any 
heritage, and I don’t think I’m so backboneless as father. 
I’ve got a scheme growing in my head — I shan’t tell you 
about it till I’m sure of my own mind — but it doesn’t 
include a husband.” 

Claudia looked attentively at her sister. For the first 
time it flashed across her that the baffling thing about Pat 
was that so far she was quite sexless. She had been eager 
to come out for the fun of the dancing and the parties, 
but she had never had that shy anticipation of love that 
makes so many girls of eighteen eager to be presented. 
The books she read as a child were always stirring adven- 
ture stories, travels and records of real achievements. 
Fairy-tales with the all-conquering prince had bored her, 
all except the passages that dealt with sanguinary fights 
and treasure-trove. Later on she had read one or two 
famous Franch romances out of curiosity, but they haid 
failed to make any, appeal whatever. Her enthusiasm?, 
her outbursts of passion, her thrills, were reserved for 
golf and hockey, and she had once said that the greatest 
, and most satisfying mornents of .life to her were when she 


230 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


was on the back of her favourite horse, following the 
hounds. She liked men. Indeed, on the whole, she pre- 
ferred them to women, but only because they were better 
and more vigorous sportsmen and less liable to be petty 
and jealous. As Claudia surveyed her she realized that 
she neither could give nor did she wish to proffer advice. 
Pat must face her own problem. Before her marriage 
she would have rushed in where experience fears to tread, 
and talked to Pat of the joys of love, of the folly of the 
woman who disdained or belittled what man could offer. 
Now all her landmarks were gone. She had messed up 
her own life. All she could do was to listen and reflect 
what an awful muddle and enigma life was for women, 
and wonder why Providence had given them no chart to 
steer by. 

“You see,” continued Pat, “I’ve thought the thing out, 
and it wouldn’t be playing cricket to marry a man if you 
didn’t want him — that way. I tried to tell a man the 
other day how I felt, and he said he’d be a chum and 
wouldn’t worry me; but I saw the look in his eyes even 
then, and I knew it would be hell for both of us. Men 
always want women that way.” 

Who had said something like that recently? Ah, yes! 
it had been said by Jack, apropos of Colin paton. 

“You are very wise this morning,” said Claudia, with 
a forced laugh. “If you feel this way there may be men 
who also are celibates at heart.” 

“Haven’t met any,” said Pat laconically, giving Socky 
a kick to stop his stentorian dreams. “He’s chasing 
bunnies in the Park.” 

“Oh ! there are men. A good many women complain 
of — lack of attention on the part of their husbands.” 

“Then the attentions go to some other woman, or he’s 
an uninteresting money-grabber.” 

“Don’t generalize so much What about a man like 

Colin Paton?” 


“ASHES" 


231 


Pat laughed derisively, so that Socky got up and 
barked. “Shut up, you fool; I’m laughing at my sister, 
who has the foolishness of a babe! Have you known 
Paton all these years and not seen beneath the surface? 
Gracious! even if he likes me — which he doesn’t expect 
to crack jokes with — that would be the last man I’d ex- 
periment with. He’s full of emotion underneath that 
quiet exterior. If I could return it, I’d rather like to be 
loved by Colin Paton. Why, he’d make the most tender 
and ardent of lovers if he gained the heart of the right 
woman. Have you seen him with his widowed mother? 
Oh ! he’s perfectly sweet to her, and she adores him. She’s 
such a nice, cosy thing, too; you feel you want to sit on 
a footstool at her feet and have her stroke your hair.’’ 

“If you’re right, it’s curious he hasn’t married." 

She was looking out of the window again, and she 
didn’t see the curious look her sister cast at her. Pat 
finished up the conversation with: 

“Come on, Socks, we’re going to our happy home. Men 
like Colin Paton often get left because most women are 
fools where love is concerned. It’s been the study of their 
lives for centuries, and even now they can’t tell a piece of 
glass from a diamond. Because a man doesn’t come along 
like a raging whirlwind they think he’s cold, and because 
he loudly swears fidelity like a tinkling cymbal they think 
they can put their money on him. The metaphors are a 
bit mixed, but what I’m driving at is this. Women sel- 
dom have any judgment where men are concerned, and 
the nicer the woman the less sound is her judgment. 
Only bad women have good judgment regarding men. 
I — Patricia Iverson— have spoken. Selah ! Socks !” 


CHAPTER XIII 

A DANGER SIGNAL 

F RITZ NEEBURG was busily writing in his study 
when his man came to tell him that Carey Image 
had called to see him. He was just starting a chapter 
of his new book, entitled “Neurasthenia and its Causes,” 
but he at once put his pen down. 

“This is good of you to receive me,” said Image 
warmly ; “I can see you are busy.” 

“Not too busy to stop and have a chat with you. I 
hope you don’t want to consult me professionally? You 
haven’t got the disease of the age, have you ?” 

Image shook his bird-like head and then sighed. 

“No, but I came on behalf of someone else — someone 
in whom you are interested, or I shouldn’t waste your 
valuable time. Have you seen Gilbert Currey lately ?” 

“Not since the attack of influenza, when he” — dryly — 
“asked my advice and didn’t take it.” 

“Ah! you must see him, Neeburg.” 

Neeburg never looked surprised or startled, he had the 
Teutonic phlegmatic temperament. He waited for Image 
to go on. 

“My dear fellow, I won’t usurp your province, but I 
don’t like the look of him at all. I’ve seen men before 
232 


A DANGER SIGNAL 


233 


on the verge of a nervous breakdown. We got a good 
many out in India, and I’ve come to know that curious 
inward, burning look of the eyes. ... I was very upset 
yesterday. I met him suddenly in King’s Bench Walk 
and he — didn’t know me.” 

Neeburg opened his eyes a little. 

“He passed it off by saying he was immersed in some 
difficult case; but I could see he was intensely annoyed 
with himself, and that led me to deduce it is not the first 
time his memory has played a trick on him. I needn’t 
say any more to you, as a physician, except that Robson, 
the Attorney-General, told me in confidence the other 
day that he is taking far too much work, and that he is 
not — doing it well. He’s noticed a great change in him, 
and he told me, as an old friend, to use my influence to 
make him take a holiday.” 

The eyes of the two men met — Image’s brilliantly 
bright through his eyeglasses, those of the physician 
calmly reflective. Then Neeburg got up from his seat 
and paced the room without speaking. 

“I’ve warned him repeatedly,” he said at length, “and 
I’ve watched it coming. But Gilbert is not an easy man 
to prescribe for. He is eaten up with ambition, he is so 
keen on 'the game’ that he takes no heed of warnings, 
mine or Nature’s. That man has worked like a horse 
for the last five years ; in fact, he has worked incessantly 
ever since his boyhood, when his father urged him to 
win scholarships for the glory of the Currey family. . . . 
The father has only been half a success ; he had driving 
power but no judgment, and he was unpopular at the 
Bar. He took up politics, but he was too vehement and 
dogmatic for his party. He concentrated his ambition 
on Gilbert, and Gilbert is very like him— very. With 
Gilbert, what I call 'the game’ is the very marrow of 
his bones. You might as well ask him to change his 
body as change his manner of life. He had a very good 


2 34 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


constitution, and I hoped it would stand the strain .... 
But it’s gone to pieces very badly of late. Outside people 
will say suddenly, but he’s been undermined for some 
time. If his memory is going .... God help him and 
Claudia!” 

“Extraordinary hei can be so blind to her charm and 
qualities. . . .extraordinary ! . . . Iam sometimes ashamed 
he is my godson.” 

“The men in the Currey family have — to put it bluntly 
— used women. They have never rated them highly. 
Claudia is a very emotional, highly-strung woman, with 
all sorts of splendid qualities which he does not appre- 
ciate ; she was never meant to marry a Currey.” 

“In my young days we didn’t hear so much talk of 
‘the game,’ this feverish desire to work one’s self into 
an early grave. Is it a modern failing, doctor?” 

“No, men have always sacrificed themselves and de- 
voted their best energies to it, but to-day we are suffer- 
ing from it in an aggravated form, because most of the 
things men set their hopes upon are not worth while. 
It gets worse every year. This craze for luxury, for 
display — and that comes a good deal from our women- 
folk — first of all eggs a man on to accumulate money or 
make a position, then the spirit of the game gets into 
him, even if he isn’t born with it, and before he has time 
to turn round and reflect he is in the midst of the scrim- 
mage and he doesn’t want to get out of it. It’s a poison 
that eats into the very flesh, that corrodes his blood, that 
makes him blind to the waste of his life. Oh! I’ve been 
watching it for years.” 

Image’s bright eyes watched Neeburg. 

“It’s worse in America than it is here, but every day 
the pace gets hotter, the gambling more feverish. The 
wrecks of men that have passed through my hands, men 
that at forty and earlier are practically used up, and no 
amount of drugs or rest will do them much good ! They 


A DANGER SIGNAL 


235 


‘get through’ the rest of their lives instead of living! 
While you were in India I practised in New York for 
a couple of years with Finlay McKay. One man came 
to me at the beginning of my stay, and begged me to pull 
him together. I preached a holiday, relaxation. He said 
‘No,’ but as soon as he had made a couple of million 
dollars he’d stop. He’d set himself that task. A year 
later he came to me in such a frazzled state that I was 
ashamed of my sex. He’d made his pile, he’d gained his 
ambition. ‘Now rest,’ said I, ‘you have still a slender 
chance if you’re careful.’ ‘I can’t, doctor,’ he said. ‘I 
can’t do anything except work. I’ve done what I set 
out to do, but I can’t stop now. Life without my work 
wouldn’t be worth while. I thought it was a bank balance 
I wanted, but it’s “the game !” ’ I told that man I would 
give him six months if he didn’t clear out of it and go 
for a long sea voyage. There, in my presence, he de- 
liberately chose the six months. He died in four.... 
Most men nowadays are crazy to get ahead of other 
men. To a man, ‘the game’: to a woman, love; for 
whatever women may do or have done, love for them 
will always remain the great adventure.” 

“Love was for me ‘the great adventure,’ as well as for 
her,” said Image quietly. “But there, I have something 
of the woman in me. I realize that.” 

“And you have a thousand happy memories, and you 
still enjoy every minute of your life, don’t you? Every- 
thing in the world interests you. You have provided 
yourself with a future. You’re a wise man, Image.” 

The little man shook his head with a smile. “A sweet 
and a brave woman was wise for me, Neeburg. . . . You 
will use your influence with Gilbert ?” 

“Yes, I will try and frighten him. I did that once 
very successfully, but my patient was not so stubborn as 
Gilbert. He had a wife and four children, and she 
begged me to stop him while there was yet time. He was 


236 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


already in such a state of nerves that the home was all 
misery and apprehension. Generally we tell patients that 
they are better than they really are, but this man I 
frightened stiff. He went for a long sea-voyage, and the 
fright and the cleansing breath of Nature — oh! so kindly, 
if we would only heed her! — cured him. He’s doing 
exceedingly well now — he’s rapidly becoming famous — 
but he’s going slow, and they are bringing up their boys 
to ignore this modern competitive spirit.... I’ll do my 
best, Image, you may be sure of that. But his vigorous 
early manhood is against him. He won’t believe, I fear, 
in the danger that threatens .... Have you heard about 
Colin Paton? I was told yesterday by Sir Andrew 
Morgan that he’s going to create a sensation shortly by 
one of the finest books on Sociology that has so far been 
written. Sir Andrew read it for a publishing firm, and 
he confessed it staggered him — the knowledge and judg- 
ment of the thing. I’m glad; I always knew there was 
real stuff in Paton !” 


CHAPTER XIV 


AN UNEMOTIONAL FISH 

C LAUDIA had been giving a little luncheon-party, 
and she had kept Mr. Littleton, the American pub- 
lisher, in order to have a talk with him on a new volume 
of poetry 1 she had been reading. The other guests had 
all gone, and she always enjoyed talking to him. It was 
left to him to give her the news of Paton’s book. 

“By and by,” he said casually, “Mr. Colin Paton is a 
friend of yours, is he not? I think I have heard you 
mention his name?” 

“Oh, yes !” returned Claudia easily, “I have known him 
for years. He has always been a guide, philosopher and 
friend, and especially in your department.” 

“Don’t ! It sounds as if I sold ribbons at the stores 

Then, of course, you know about this book of his on 
Sociology that is bound to make a stir this autumn ?” 
Claudia sat up abruptly in her chair. 

What book? Has Colin Paton written a book on 
Sociology ?” 

“One of the finest, if not the finest, that has yet been 
written. Such a lot of twaddle and froth is usually 
poured forth on that subject, but this book is the real 
thing, and exceedingly well written too. I’ve secured it 
for America, where we’ve got a good many books on that 
^37 


238 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


subject. But I reckon this will put all the others out of 
court. Where has he got all his knowledge, Mrs 
Currey ?” 

Claudia was some little time before she replied to his 
question. Colin had not told her ! He had been writing 
this book for a long time, and he had never confided in 
her! She had thought they were such intimate friends, 
she had always taken it for granted that he told her — 
well, most things that were not other people’s secrets, 
and she was left to learn of his book from a new friend. 
Why, surely she might have expected that he would have 
told her long ago of his intention to write it. She had 
always thought their friendship meant that. 

She was very hurt and also a little astounded. It was 
as though a favourite and well-known view had suddenly 
taken on an entirely new aspect. Another landmark that 
she thought was firmly planted in almost eternal solidity 
seemed to have shifted. She wondered wildly if the 
whole world were not built on a quicksand, if there were 
any stability or permanence in any of. the human emo- 
tions or relations. Their vaunted friendship, what was it 
worth, if it did not mean that she had his confidence and 
he had hers? 

Littleton wondered at the blank look on her face as she 
replied rather mechanically : 

“Oh, I think he has been studying such questions for 
years, ever since he was up at Oxford. He’s not a man 

to talk much or make any show Yes, I can quite 

imagine the book is good.” 

She could not turn and accuse herself of living in a 
fool’s paradise, for she was too unhappy to dwell in such 
a favoured, sunny clime ; but did she know the world she 
lived in, the people by whom she was surrounded ? Why, 
her younger sister Pat had been accusing her only the 
other day of bad judgment where men were concerned. 
Pat had laughed at her on this very subject, and said she 


AN UNEMOTIONAL FISH 


239 


did not really know Colin Paton. Was it true? Can one 
see a man constantly for years and not really know the 
inner man? But she had always credited herself with un- 
usual powers of divination. She despised other people 
for taking the world and its creatures at face-value. 

“The amount of reading he must have done for this 
book is enormous,” went on Littleton. “Because, unlike 
most wildly enthusiastic reformers, who fling adjectives 
about and scream at the top of their voices, he has 
marshalled an amazing array of facts and figures. That, 
and his own discrimination and judgment, make the 
book so fine. And there are one or two passages, where 
he lets himself go, that are absolutely stirring. As you 
know” — with a laugh — “I’m in the trade, and I don’t 
often enthuse over a book, but I was greatly struck with 
this.” 

“I am glad,” said Claudia dully, “very glad.” 

This book had been in his mind for years, perhaps 
ever since he left Oxford, and he had never talked of it 
to her. She would never forgive him! , He had not 
thought her worthy of his confidence. He was not her 
friend. Then a vision of him at Fay’s flat that awful 
night, quietly directing everyone and watching over her, 
came across her mental vision, but this only confused her 
the more. Did he, like most men, look upon her as a 
graceful, pretty plaything — just a woman? Was his idea 
of a woman just like her husband’s, only different in 
kind? Apparently she was of no real use to anyone, 
except — yes, except to the little music-hall artiste whom 
the family had rejected. 

Then she looked at the man in the chair beside 1 hers, 
and as her preoccupation had made him drop his guard, 
she read clearly the very personal admiration in his eyes. 
For a moment they remained looking at one another, love 
in the man’s eyes, a hopeless bewilderment and weariness 
in Claudia’s. 


240 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


“Your life does not satisfy you,” said the man abruptly. 
“I have known that for some time.” 

“Is anyone satisfied with his life?” 

She was a little startled, but a beautiful, much-sought- 
after woman is seldom nonplussed by such a situation. 
She had seen that look in too many men’s eyes. It was 
only startling with Littleton because she had not noticed 
that he was falling in love with her. Was that because 
she had been thinking of Frank to the exclusion of other 
men? For though love itself may not be blind, it makes 
a woman insensible to the feelings of other men and her 
very preoccupation often piques them into desiring her. 

Littleton got up and leaned against the mantelpiece, 
looking down upon her. His straight, spare figure, in 
his unmistakable American clothing, bespoke energy and 
endurance. The shape of his head, on the forehead of 
which the fair hair was thinning a little, told of great 
mental activity and powers of organization. Some woman 
might be proud of such a man. In some ways he was not 
unlike Colin Paton, save that he had the American rest- 
lessness and nerviness, and that he lacked the fine polish 
and self-possession which a man may possibly acquire, 
but is usually associated with families that can count 
back many centuries, and that have always tried to up- 
hold the best traditions of English manhood. Paton’s 
ancestors had mainly been divided into two classes, 
fighters and scholars. Admiral Worral Paton had fought 
many a fight with Francis Drake on the high seas, and 
another Paton in the reign of Elizabeth had been ac- 
counted a great and learned savant at court. Before that 
time, in the reign of Henry the Seventh, there had been 
a namesake of Colin’s who had fought bravely for the 
crown, and helped to subdue Lord Lovel’s rising in York- 
shire. Claudia knew of these and of several more worthy 
and later ancestors, for she had once visited his Eliza- 
bethan country home, where his mother still lived, and 


AN UNEMOTIONAL FISH 


241 


he had, with laughing comments, conducted her through 
the gallery of family portraits, which showed, he said, 
that there had never been any fatal beauty in the family. 
But she had been struck even then,, as a girl — she had 
only been seventeen at the time — with the indefinable air 
of breeding and intellectual distinction which they all 
bore. There was an unmistakable stamp on the faces 
of all the Patons, which said as plainly as words, “Death 
before dishonour.” Colin had told her the story of one 
youth, a gay Royalist with laughing eyes, who had fallen 
from honour by parting, under pressure from the woman 
he loved, with one of the King’s secrets. “But, like 
Judas,” said Colin, “he went out and hanged, or rather 
shot, himself almost directly afterwards. You, who feel 
so intensely the joy of life — look at his laughing eyes ! — 
will believe that he expiated his sin.” 

At Gilbert’s home, too, there was a small picture- 
gallery — not very large, for the Curreys had never had 
any artistic leanings, and had only had their portraits 
painted to feed their own vanity and pomp— but the 
Curreys were a different race. Worthy — yes, probably — 
but heavy and coarse- featured, with none of the fineness 
and delicacy that distinguished the Patons, and some of 
them obviously too full-blooded, with the limited vision 
which embraces only the material things of life. 

The man who stood looking down upon her now was of 
different type from either. He belonged to the virile 
new world; he had its good qualities and its defects. 
Like Colin, he was a good companion to be with, but he 
was so virile and so mettlesome that he occasionally left 
her rather exhausted. 

“Well ?” he queried smilingly, not attempting to answer 
her question. 

“I was thinking.” 

“I know you were. One can always see the thoughts 
flitting through your eyes. I have often longed to know 


2A£ 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


what you were thinking about. I believe your thoughts 
are worth hearing. Won’t you tell me this time?” 

She found herself liking his voice, which had a slight 
American inflection without being nasal. 

“I was thinking how different the American man is 
from the average Englishman, both in mind, temperament 
and physique.” 

“We’re certainly beaten under the last head,” he replied, 
with a frank laugh. “I am always admiring your Eng- 
lishmen from the point of view of good looks, though 
you know our men can be pretty fit, as we’ve shown in 
your sports’ contests. But we’re not such good lookers, 
sure. As for temperament” — he looked at her with a 
little challenge in his grey-blue eyes — “that isn’t racial, 
you know; it’s individual. I guess one of my country- 
men may possess it as well as an Englishman. And what 
do you mean by a temperament, anyway ?” 

Claudia shook her head. She refused to be drawn. 
“Impossible to "define. Those who have it do not need 
a definition, and those who have it not — will never find 
one. Didn’t someone once say: ‘Art is life seen through 
a temperament’?” 

“But I’m not an artist,” he replied quickly, “only a 
merchant, who purveys works of art through the medium 
of a printing-press. Do you think that only professed 
artists may possess a temperament?” 

“Of course not. That would be too ridiculous. I 
daresay some of the greatest artists are inarticulate.” 

“I am glad to hear you say that, because I should have 
hated to have you put me right out of court. Because,” 
he spoke slowly, “lately I have begun to realize that a 
certain resurrection is going on within me; that what I 
tried deliberately to kill is still alive, painfully alive.” 

She was' aware that he was on the verge of a confi- 
dence, and she only looked her interest. She liked him, 
and she felt she wanted to know more about him; for 


AN UNEMOTIONAL FISH 


243 


never had they discussed their private lives with one an- 
other. He was introducing a new element into their 
friendship. 

“I married before I was twenty-two, and last fall I 
became a widower. I married early after deliberation 
and sober reflection. Isn't it curious that one can so 
often reflect more soberly when one is twenty than when 
one is approaching forty, as I am now? I married, my 
friends said, most suitably. I was not what you would 
call in love with her. I had known her for years, and 
I was fond of her in a quiet, unemotional way, which 
you people of temperament despise. I married young 
to have my mind and energies free for my work of restor- 
ing an old firm to its original activity and greatness. I 
realized that if youth wants to toe the straight line, it 
must keep clear of emotional complications. I saw other 
men taken off their work, their senses flaying them into 
madness and folly, by the women they met. I determined 
that I would marry and keep clear of attractive women. 
I would settle down early into a family man, and if there 
were joys that I knew not — well, the man who has been 
born blind doesn’t know the glory of the sunshine. My 
wife was placid and quite content with the small amount 
of leisure and attention I could give her. All my best 
energies I gave to my work. Every American is born am- 
bitious; it’s in the very air he breathes, and with his 
first little squalling breath he draws it in. I had rather 

a tough fight, but I won out all right Now I am 

nearly forty I begin to wonder if I have done the best 
with my life; I begin to see that perhaps those other 
fellows who never got on are not to be pitied after all. 
I begin to feel a hiatus in my life; I begin to see what 
life might be.” 

As he looked at the beautiful vivid woman among the 
cushions of the arm-chair, he recalled the quiet, orderly 
life he had led with the one who had borne his name, 


244 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


the lack of anything approaching exaltation or beauty in 
their relationship, the prosaic monotony of their days, 
and he wondered if he had not been the greatest of God’s 
fools. What would life be with such a woman as the 
one who now sat plaiting her fingers in her lap, her very 
finger-tips pulsating with life? The magnetism of her 
womanhood reached him as he stood, and made his 
breath come more quickly. They had so much in common 
already, was it too wild and venturesome to hope that 
they might have more ? 

“In short,” she said slowly, “you have sacrificed the 
best years of your life to what you men call 'the game.’ 
But you have succeeded. Many men sacrifice everything 
and — fail. You may feel at odd moments that you have 
missed something, but I expect you are really quite satis- 
fied. You know the proverb about the cake?” 

“Yes, but did I choose the best kind of cake?” 

She broke! the spell by laughing. It sounded so odd. 
It reminded her of the days when, as a child, she used 
to hover over the plate of cakes anxiously seeking to 
make a good choice. 

“That’s life,” she laughed. “If you take the choco- 
late one, you always wish you had taken the jam-puff. 
And, after all,” a little wearily, “what does it matter — 
chocolate or jam? Equally sweet, perhaps, and equally 
unwholesome.” 

He joined in her laugh and held out his hand. “I must 
go now. Let me come again soon, will you ? I enjoyed 
your charming luncheon-party, but much more have I 
enjoyed this talk with you. Somehow I always want 
to talk to you, and I have the reputation for being rather 
a silent man. I wonder why you inspire me ?” 

Her hand was in his and she smiled mischievously and 
mockingly as she said : “I suppose it’s because I talk so 
much. It makes you feel that you must uphold the superior 
ability of your sex in all things, even conversation.” 


AN UNEMOTIONAL FISH 


245 


But he did not smile. His eyes were searching her 
face, noting the soft, velvety texture of the skin — how he 
longed to press his lips on her full, creamy throat even 
more than on her lips — the satiny gloss of her luxurious 
hair, the long eyelashes which, as he stood above her, 
swept her cheeks, the small, straight nose and delicate 
ears. 

“You are a very sweet and fascinating woman.” he 
said suddenly, “and I am sorry that we ever did any- 
thing so vulgar as to use your portrait for a book cover. 
.... Good-bye. ,, 

For a few minutes after he had taken his departure 
Claudia sat thinking about him. Unlike Frank Hamilton, 
he did not set her pulses singing, and leave her inwardly 
shaken when he released her hand; but, on the other 
hand, she found herself considering him more seriously. 
She conjectured more about him; she found herself 
wanting his opinion, just as she did Colin Paton’s. Colin! 
That reminded her of the beginning of their conversa- 
tion. Colin had clearly shown that their friendship was 
to hini but a small thing. She found herself clenching 
her fingers into the palm of her hand as she reflected 
on the secret he had kept from her. This man Littleton 
was not in any way the equal of Colin Paton, either in 
brain or in character ; but he was evidently trying to tell 
her how much he appreciated their acquaintanceship, 
trying to let her know that he realized now what a big 
part a woman might play in his ‘life. Pat was quite, 
quite wrong. Colin was an unemotional fish; he even 
took their friendship coldly. 

“And I want love, life, warmth!” she cried to her 
empty drawing-room. “I am tired of leading this deadly 
existence. I want someone to love me, to tell me so, to 
make me feel that he loves me.” 

She looked at the room through a blinding mist, so that 
the delicate walls and the Louis Quinze furniture all 


246 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


swum in a haze, and nothing stood out save the fact that 
the room, like her heart, was empty, and there was no 
one to hold out two arms ready to enfold her. 

Then she strangled a sob in her throat, and the room 
became once more the charming, orderly room it always 
was, filled with sweet scented flowers and majestic palms. 

“You’re a fool, Claudia, a fool! a fool! a fool!” she 
said through her half-closed teeth. “You want things 
that you will never get, that probably don’t exist except 
in your stupid imagination.” 

Then she went quickly out of the room to her bedroom, 
where her outdoor clothes were lying on the bed. She 
rang the bell for her maid. 

“Order the car for me, please. I am going to see Mrs. 
Iverson. Give me that box of picture-puzzles I got for 
her.” 

Fay always wanted her. She would go where she was 
wanted. 


CHAPTER XV 

WHY NOT? 

C LAUDIA asked the usual question of the nurse 
who met her in the hall of the flat. It was now 
three weeks since Fay's accident. 

“Sir Richard said definitely to-day that everything has 
now been tried/’ said the nurse sadly, for both the day 
and the night nurse had grown fond of their odd little 

patient. “I think they always knew it was hopeless 

I fear she is growing suspicious. She cried a good deal 
of last night, and only slept for a couple of hours. Nurse 
Calderon said she thought she heard her whisper to her- 
self in the night: ‘Oh, God! I can’t! I can’t! Let me 
get better!’ Poor little thing! It’s too horrible, and, 
of course, everything will — will get worse.” 

Claudia, who had read up the progress of such cases in 
a medical book she had found in Gilbert’s library, gave 
assent. She knew that the end of such cases is the 
abject humiliation of human flesh where so many of the 
functions of the body are paralysed. The account had 
made her feel sick in the reading, and she shrank from 
the thought of all that lay before the girl — she was little 
more — who lay in the bedroom beyond. 

Claudia opened the bedroom door full of misgivings, 
her heart very heavy as the thought of Fay’s night vigil, 
2 47j 


248 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


so that she was unprepared for the sight that met her 
gaze. The room always was a bower of flowers, generally 
coloured ones, for Fay said bluntly that white ones re- 
minded her of a funeral ; but this afternoon it presented 
an unusually gay aspect. The apartment was almost 
gaudy, and at first Claudia did not take in why it was so 
bright. Fay was propped up among a nest of pillows, 
her tiny face, very little changed, hidden under an 
enormous black hat with three great blue feathers float- 
ing over it. The bed was strewn with hats, the chairs 
were littered with them. Pink cardboard boxes of vari- 
ous sizes stood everywhere. 

“Darling, you’ve come in the nick of time,” called out 
Fay excitedly. “Isn’t this a duck of a hat? You see, I 
must have some new hats. I shall be better soon now, 
and it’s no good getting up and finding you’ve got nothing 
to put on your cocoanut. And Madame Rose has got all 
her new models for the summer. This is French. You 
can see that with half an eye, can’t you? I call it shick, 
don’t you? Something like a hat.” 

A dark-eyed Jewess, who had evidently brought the 
hats, was standing at the foot of the bed, and broke in 
with : 

“Straight from Parry,. Miss Mbrris,” she said glibly, 
though it was evident that it had been concocted in 
some cheap London warehouse. “Very latest thing. 
Real style there. I thought of you as soon as I saw it. 
It’s too good for anyone else, I said.” 

“Ah! did you? Give me the hand-glass. I want 
to see how my dial looks under it. Ugh ! like an under- 
done muffin left out in the rain. Give us over the rouge 
and the powder-puff. And the bunch of curls out of the 
drawer. Where’s that eyebrow pencil I had this morn- 
ing? I rub the blessed stuff off on the pillow. There! 
that’s better, cocky. Now I’ve got a bit of bloom. We’re 
not forty and in the cupboard yet, thank the Lord ! It 


WHY NOT? 


249 


saves a* lot of trouble if you’ve got dark eyebrow's. Yours 
don’t rub off and get smeary, do they ?” 

“It’s curious,” smiled Claudia, removing one of the 
hats in order to sit down, “that your eyebrows are so 
light when your hair is so dark.” 

Fay gave a whoop that showed her lungs were not 
affected. 

“You dear holy innocent! Did you think my hair was 
really this colour? Not much. The hair-dresser does 
it, and jolly expensive it is. My hair, as a child, was a 
silly soppy sort of light shade, so I improved on it. I’m 
much more effective with black hair. Makes a bit of a 
contrast. Got the idea out of a story where a man was 
raving over blue eyes and black hair. First of all, I tried 
red. But it’s so difficult with hats and all the boys call 
you Ginger.” 

She might have been discussing the colour of a parasol, 
so impersonal and frank was her tone. Evidently it never 
occurred to her that these were what is called in ladies’ 
papers, “secrets of the toilet-table.” 

Fay turned to the girl, who was adjusting the trim- 
ming on another hat, equally large and covered with 
roses of a nightmare shade of pink. 

“You remember my hair when it was red, don’t you, 
Vera?” She chuckled. “I remember you didn’t know 
me when I came into the shop, and you was so polite” 
— she gave Claudia a wink — “that I knew you hadn’t 
spotted me. I’d run up the devil of a bill, and Madame 
Rose was giving me the frozen eye just then. I think 
I shall keep to black now. It does suit me, doesn’t it ?” 

“Admirably,” returned her sister-in-law, controlling a 
desire to laugh. 

“I like your hair,” commented Fay; “there are sort of 
coloury bits in it. I thought at first you must dye it, only 
Jack told me you didn’t, and that it was like that when 
you were a kid. It’s real pretty. Darling, try on this 


250 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


hat. I want to see it on someone else. There’s no doubt 
it’s stylish. I hate the sort of hats nobody notices. When 
I pay big money I like to get the goods.” 

Claudia good-naturedly removed her own smart 
little toque of white brocade and skunk, and placed the 
top-heavy confection upon her head. 

Fay’s face was a study in astonishment and dismay as 
she looked at the other woman. 

“Well, I’m blowed! It looks — oh! sort of funny — 
and” — she shook her head — “Vera, are you sure it’s good 
style ? All right, keep your hair on, I didn’t say it wasn’t, 
only Crickey Bill, does it look like that on me?” 

The girl from the shop eyed Claudia with no great 
favour. Her small, beady eyes looked sourly and en- 
viously at the perfectly-cut, black velvet gown and ele- 
gant skunk and ermine furs. She was cute enough to 
realize that Claudia’s clothes were the “real thing” and 
spelt not only money — her own wares were absurdly 
overpriced — but taste. She was accustomed to serving 
“ladies” in the profession, who familiarly called her 
“Vera, my dear,” and asked, and generally took her ad- 
vice, as well as swallowed her fulsome flattery. 

“Take it off,” said Fay almost sharply. “I hate it 

now. It’s too large, it’s too ” Then, with a sudden 

change to wistfulness, she added, “but it’s you that 
makes it wrong. You’re good style, and I’m not. I’m 
common, dead common. I don’t wonder you didn’t want 
me in the family.” 

“Fay, dear, don’t.” Claudia glanced at the sulky Vera, 
who was packing up the hats. Apparently Fay had 
never heard of the undesirability of washing dirty linen 
in public. 

“You’re a lady. A blind man could see that. If you 
hadn’t been so sweet I’d have hated you directly I saw 
you. I knew what you were at once. Of course, Jack 
is a perfect gentleman, but that’s different somehow, 


WHY NOT? 


251 


except” — vaguely — “I liked him a bit extra for it. He 
looks different in his clothes to the other men, and yet 
those men spend a lot of money too. I knew a man 
once, he owned a couple of halls in the Midlands, and he 
told me he had fifty-two waistcoats, one for every week 
of the year. I don’t suppose Jack’s got as many as that?” 

She was adjusting a saucy matin6e cap, a dainty affair 
of pink ribbon and lace. 

“I am sure he hasn’t.” 

“Won’t you take no hat at all?” said the annoyed 
shop-girl, breaking in rudely. “You might take this one 
with the pink roses. I’m sure that’s quite enough.” 

“No, no, I’ll wait till I can come to the shop. Here, 
my dear, here’s a half a crown for your trouble. I’ll come 
in — soon.” She looked quickly from the shop-girl to 
Claudia, a desperate question in her blue eyes. 

“That’s a much better arrangement,” returned Claudia 
cheerfully. “We’ll go together, shall we?” 

“Yes, yes,” cried Fay eagerly, clapping her hands. 
“But, I say,” as the door closed behind the girl and her 
hat-boxes, “will you take me to your hat shop where that 
came from?” 

“With pleasure.” 

“What; come here.” Fay beckoned her imperiously 
to her side. “Do you mean you are not ashamed of 
me? I could keep my mouth dead shut, you know. Do 
you mean that you’d let me wear the same sort of hats 
as you, that you’ll try and make a lady of me?” 

Claudia could not speak, she gently nodded. 

“Well,” said Fay huskily, her eyes suspiciously moist, 
“you’re it all right, that’s all I can say. I — you can touch 
me for anything you want. You’ve only got to ask me. 
I say, hand me over that leather case from the chest of 
drawers — yes, that’s the one.” 

Wonderingly, Claudia obeyed, and handed her the 
case which was a cheap leather imitation. 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


252 

Fay opened the case with a key from under her pillow 
and rummaged inside. Presently she produced a small 
box. 

“There! I want to show you this. It’s for you. It’s 
quite straight; you needn’t think I got it in any — any 
way you wouldn’t like. I bought it off someone who was 
hard up.” “It” was a diamond and ruby brooch, and 
quite a tasteful affair in the form of two hearts, trans- 
fixed by an arrow. 

“Oh ! but Fay, I couldn’t 

“Take it, I say, or I shall think you don’t mean what 
you said just now. Two hearts, d’yer see — you and 
me! Quite romantic, isn’t it? Put it on that lacy thing 
at your throat. Yes, it looks nice. No, you’re not going 
to thank me. Just give me a kiss, that’s all.” 

For a few moments the lips of the two met, so different 
in their upbringing and views of life, but strangely 
brought together by the hand of Fate. 

“Now look at my joolery. Never seen it, have you? 
Well, it aint so dusty, if I says it. I’ve always got them 
to shell out all right. After all,” with a quaint little 
touch of vanity, “when you top the bill you’re worth 
it, and I don’t believe in making yourself cheap or mak- 
ing men meaner than they are. Not that I exactly like 
them for what they give you, but it shows they do like 

you, because a man doesn’t stump up easily There, 

that’s a stunning pendant, isn’t it? It cost two hundred 
and fifty, because I went and chose it.” 

Claudia was astounded at the value of the jewellery 
that reposed in the shabby, unremarkable leather case. 
She saw that Fay loved the things by the way she touched 
them. Some of them were beautiful. But presently Fay 
gave a sigh and, selecting a large diamond pendant which 
she put round her neck, over her nightdress, she shut up 
the case. “Put the things back,” she said queerly. “I — 
I ” Then, to Claudia’s dismay, she began to sob 


WHY NOT? 


253 

rather pitifully like a frightened child. Claudia drew the 
little head to her breast. 

“Hush, dear, you mustn’t excite yourself. It’s bad 
for you. Nurse will say it’s my fault, you know.” 

“I’m not very old,” sobbed Fay, “I’m only twenty-two. 
Some people live to be very old.” 

Claudia tried to think of a laughing reply, but no words 
vrould come. She could only rearrange the matinee cap 
and put her own cool cheek against the one wet with 
tears. 

“Fay, dear, to please me — you said you’d do anything 
for me — don’t cry so. Are you — are you in pain ?” 

She wiped the tears away gently with her handkerchief, 
the rouge from the cheeks coming off too. 

Presently Fay grew a little calmer. 

“Claudia, I want to ask you something because you are 
honest.” Oh! how Claudia’s heart sank! She dreaded 
what the next words would be, but as usual the unex- 
pected came from Fay. 

“Do you think this is a punishment for — for not being 
good? Nurse has got a Bible, and I — just for fun — 
asked her to read me a bit. It frightened me. I’m not 
what you call bad, am I ?” 

“No, Fay,” said Claudia steadily, determined that not 
all the religion or moral teaching in the world should 
make her distress the doomed woman. “No, Fay, don’t 
distress yourself. I don’t believe for an instant this is a 
punishment.” She tried to speak simply, but the task 
was difficult. Her own religion was a very vague one. She 
believed that if there were a God, as so many Christians 
averred, a God who was all-loving, understanding beyond 
finite conception, there could never be any question of 
punishment such as Fay suggested. Fay’s mind and 
morals were stunted, undeveloped. Since she had come 
in contact with the queer people who were her fellow 
“pros,” Claudia had come very clearly to recognize that 


254 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


the lives of such artistes, especially those like Fay, who 
had been born practically on the boards of a music-hall, 
were not subject to the ordinary judgments of society. 
Theirs was a little world of its own, with its obligations, 
its own ideas of right and wrong. To do another 
artiste out of a job, to queer her turn, to refuse to put 
your hand in your pocket for a deserving case, to crib 
another person’s business or her “ fancy boy,” those were 
unpardonable sins in Fay’s world. To have flitted from 
lover to lover — in her case without any breaking of hearts 
or ugly recriminations — was only a venial one. 

Fay gave a huge relieved sigh. “If you say so, I 
won’t worry about that any more. Of course, mind you, 
I ought to have kept straight. Mother told me that when 
I was a kid. But I don’t know. Men always liked me, 
you see, and I’m fond of them. Of course, I know you 
wouldn’t do the things I’ve done.” 

Claudia inwardly winced. That very morning she had 
had an impassioned lover-like letter from Frank com- 
plaining that she never came for the sittings now. “I 
know you have been a great deal with your sister-in-law, 
but sometimes I fear you cannot care for me when you 
can live without seeing me. To me, you are the whole 
world.” 

“I expect Jack and I are pretty poor tripe,” continued 
Fay calmly. Then a new thought struck her. “I say, 
that night I fainted, I thought I heard a nice voice in the 
hall, a man’s voice. It wasn’t the doctor, because he’s got 
a down-in-your-boots voice, and it wasn’t none of my 
pals. Was it someone, or did I fancy it?” 

“I think it was probably a friend of mine, Colin Paton. 
He got the specialist and nurse for you, and often in- 
quires after you.” 

“That’s jolly decent of him, because he doesn’t know 
me from Adam.” She looked round her at the many 
vases crowded with flowers. “But people have been nice 


WHY NOT? 


255 


to me, haven't they? It shows I’m liked, doesn’t it?” 
It was such harmless vanity that Claudia smiled. “Is 
your friend a great swell, Sir Somebody or other?” 

“Oh, dear, no.” Claudia found herself laughing at 
the idea of anyone calling Colin Paton “a great swell.” 
She must remember to tell him, he would enjoy the joke 
too. Then she stiffened a little. No, she would not 
tell him anything. He left her out of his life. “He’s 
the simplest and kindest of men, a friend one can always 
rely on.” Her sense of fairness prompted her to say so 
much. 

“He’s old, then?” 

“No, about thirty-eight. Did my description sound like 
a greybeard?” 

“Yes, ‘kind’ sounds so old somehow. Of course, he’s 
gone on you. He must be. Would he come and see me, 
do you think ? Why,” with a sudden flash of inspiration, 
“it must be tlie man Polly said was here that night and 
treated her as if she was a duchess, and thanked her for 
everything. Polly flopped immediate. She’s had a 
balmy look ever since. Oh, yes, I don’t think! Is he 
handsome?” 

“No, only nice looking.” 

“Well, I should like him to have black, flashing eyes 
— don’t you love black, flashing eyes — and dark curly 
hair, and long, white hands like the man in the novel, 
‘Did He Love Her.’ I’ll just have to listen to his voice 

Must you go now? Oh, well, I suppose I musn’t 

be selfish. Jack will be in soon. It’s rough on Jack 
me being like this, isn’t it? Only a log for a wife. . . . 
He’s better than I expected, because” — with a canny wag 
of her head — “Jack didn’t marry me to have me lying 
here like this. Men like their women to be pretty lively 
and ‘on the go,’ especially when they marry someone of 
my sort. Poor old boy! I’m really fond of Jack, you 
know. He’s always treated me decently. I hope I’ll 


256 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


get well or else All right, yes, of course, I won’t 

worry. Come again to-morrow. Where are you going ?” 

“To my mother’s. She’s got a musical afternoon, and 
I must look in. Several grand opera stars and a great 
pianist. It will be very fireworky, I’m sure. Good-bye, 
dear.” 

Fay kissed her hand gaily as Claudia smilingly with- 
drew. 

In the hall she met Jack coming in. 

“Hallo ! Claud.” He heaved a deep sigh. “I say, this 
is breaking my heart.” 

“Don’t think about your heart, think about hers,” said 
Claudia, putting her hand on his shoulder. He looked 
very dejected and some of the youth had gone out of 
his face. The contented, well-fed expression was flecked 
with something closely resembling unhappiness. “She 
is not likely to live for many years, and let’s try and make 
the best of it for her, Jacky boy.” 

“It’s hell hearing her talk about her new songs and 
going to Paris with me. . . . I shall blurt out the truth 
one day, sure as Fate. It’s lucky I’ve got a stolid sort of 
look, but it breaks me up inside. I remember talking 
to you once about thinking too much and rootling about 
for meanings in life. Why should Fay have to die like 
this? She hasn’t harmed anyone!” 

Claudia shook her head and was silent. Many greater 
minds than poor Jack’s had wrestled with that problem, 
and there had never been, and never would be, any answer. 
With Jack, his belated questioning was rather pathetic. 
He had never wanted to ask questions, he had been con- 
tent just to live, and now his happy-go-lucky love for 
Fay had turned into tragedy. 

As they stood there they could faintly hear the parrot 
in the distance still calling, “Chuck it ! Chuck it !” accom- 
panied by a hoarse chuckle that seemed to mock them 
with some uncanny knowledge. The little hall was tidy 


WHY NOT? 


257 

now, but it meant that its volatile mistress would never 
dash through it any more. 

“I say, Claud," said Jack, taking off his coat, “what's 
come over Gilbert ? I went into court to-day — a fellow I 
know was interested in an arbitration case, had money in- 
vested — and when we got there I found Gilbert had been 
briefed. He started splendidly in that ‘listen to me' sort 
of manner, and then he got muddled. He couldn't re- 
member the name of the firm he was speaking about, and 
he had to ask his junior. Everybody was noticing it. 
Why, he used to have such a ripping memory! What's 
wrong with the works?" 

Claudia was not so alarmed as she well might have 
been had she known the symptoms of nerve breakdown. 

“Perhaps he took the case up in a hurry, sometimes 
he has to do that, you know." 

“No, he didn’t, because the fellow with me told me 
that he knew he had been secured for the case a long 
time ago. I heard someone say he was going to pieces." 

“He wants a holiday Mother will think I am 

never coming. Go in and talk to Fay." 

He saw her into her car, and a few minutes later 
Claudia found herself alighting on the red carpet outside 
her old home. The sounds of a violin played by a master 
hand reached her as she entered. The Rivingtons 
were just going, Mrs. Rivington very shrill and chatty, 
and the General rather tottery and deaf. 

“I say," said Mrs. Rivington, with a glint of malice in 
her eye, “is it true your friend Frank Hamilton is going 
to marry Mrs. Jacobs? Good thing for him, I should 
say. She’s just rolling in money, almost indecent, and 
anyone can see she's madly in love with him. It's all 
very well to talk art," sneeringly, “but it usually spells 
money, doesn’t it? Artists are just like the rest of us, 
only they pretend a bit more. He’s always with her, so 
I suppose the engagement will be announced soon." 


25B 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


Claudia attributed the remarks to ill-nature on Mrs. 
Rivington’s part, for her chief occupation in life was 
planting arrows as often as she could in the weak spots 
in her friends’ armour. Claudia could afford to smile 
serenely in reply. Did she not know whom Frank loved? 
A woman rather enjoys a clandestine love-affair, and 
Claudia hugged to herself her closer knowledge of Frank's 
inner life. She knew she was the core of it. 

“Mr. Hamilton’s in there now, talking to the Duchess 
of Roxford,” continued Mrs. Rivington. “Ridiculous 
how artists are run after, isn’t it? I don’t suppose he 
was anyone in particular. Artists never are. Some people 
find that interesting, but I must say, personally, I prefer 
good breeding. So unmistakable. Good-bye. It’s too 
dreadful about The Girlie Girl, but I was right, after all, 
wasn’t I?” 

Claudia stood quietly in the doorway until the violinist, 
the great Ysaye, had finished playing. There were many 
well-known people present, great names in the social and 
artistic firmaments, for Circe had always held a little 
court all her life, and she had cleverly managed to pursue 
her uneven way without offending any of the powerful 
social leaders, who, though they always remembered her 
trespasses against her, generously spoke with more or less 
indulgence of them. She was hated by a few, like Lady 
Currey, but they did not count for very much. Circe had 
never been actively malicious, and she had always been too 
immersed in her own affairs to find time to be inquisitive 
about other people’s, hence she had acquired a certain 
reputation for fair dealing and generosity of character 
not altogether deserved. Now she very seldom enter- 
tained, but when she did so, she did it superlatively well, 
and many artists she had encouraged in their young and 
aspiring days were glad to do her honour. 

The music stopped and she found Frank at her side. 

“At last ! I have been waiting for you all the afternoon. 


WHY NOT? 


259 


I was afraid you were not coming. Claudia, this cannot 
goon. You are driving me mad. It is deliberate ? Have 
you all the time just been playing with me?” 

“Hush! don’t be so indiscreet.” She smiled, for Mrs. 
Rivington’s words returned to her mind. Frank Hamil- 
ton attracted by Mrs. Jacob’s money-bags! “I’ll talk to 
you later. You shall get me some tea. I must go over 
and speak to mother.” 

She threaded her way, with handshakes and smiles, to 
where Circe, in a most exquisite frock, sat in a shaded 
corner, among a lot of scented cushions. She was talking 
with more animation than usual to a man whose back was 
towards Claudia. With her quick eye for beauty, she 
noticed that he had a particularly well-shaped head, 
which was finely set on his shoulders. Circe was talking 
in French to him. 

“Eh bien, mon cher, Claudia est tres belle , et elle est — ” 

Circe caught sight of her, and stopped short. Had it 
not been almost impossible, Claudia would have thought 
that her mother looked distinctly embarrassed and taken 
aback. Then the well-known sweet smile drifted over 
her still beautiful mouth, and the momentary impression 
vanished. 

“Claudia, we were just talking of you. You are late, 
child. Let me introduce to you an old friend, Mr. 
Mavrocopoulos.” 

The man rose and bowed with unusual grace, and 
Claudia saw a very well-preserved man of about fifty- 
five, with black hair flecked with grey, and remarkably 
fine dark eyes. She returned his evident look of interest, 
and again she received a peculiar impression as of some- 
thing that was vaguely familiar and yet somewhat 
dream-like. She was aware that Circe was watching 
them. 

“Have I not met you before?” inquired Claudia. “Your 
face seems familiar to me, somehow.” 


26 o 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


Something flashed into his eyes, and his lips smiled as 
he turned to Circe. 

“No, Claudia, I don’t think you can remember Mr. 
Mavrocopoulos. He has not been in England for many 
years.” 

“But I saw you when you were a child of three,” said 
the man. “I remember you well, very well. I do not 
pretend that I should have known you as that child, but 
I remember you well.” 

Claudia knew his name as that of a famous and very 
wealthy Greek family, and she recalled a rumour that had 
once linked it with her mother’s. Had they found happi- 
ness together? Were there golden memories between 
them? She wondered curiously how a man and woman 
felt in such a case, who, after the lapse of many years, 
met again. Did yesterday seem as to-day ? Was memory 
sharp or dulled by time, did they remember the high- 
water-mark of their passion, or the moment when they 
had said good-bye? Were they glad to meet again? If 

she and Frank met after many years, would they ? 

Then suddenly she heard Fay’s voice saying confidently: 
“I know you wouldn’t do the things I’ve done.” But 
Circe had done them, too, and she had not had the excuse 
poor Fay could bring forward. 

There were no signs of regret on her mother’s face. 
She never spoke as one who finds any bitterness in the 
dregs of such a past. Indeed, she always spoke as one 
who felt that she had fulfilled her destiny, who has eaten 
stolen fruit joyously, without a scruple, without a fear. 
Her mother’s contempt was for women who looked long- 
ingly over the hedge and were afraid to jump. 

With a few more words Claudia left the two 
together. 

Circe’s slanting eyes, carefully made up, but in the 
shaded light still siren-like and magnetic, looked for some 
seconds into the eyes of the man beside her. 


WHY NOT? 


261 


“She is like you, Demetrius, and she has always been 
my favourite,” she murmured. 

His only answer was to take her hand in his, and raise 
it to his lips. 

“I return to Rome next week, but I take back with me 
a living picture, the incarnation of a dream.” 

Claudia was sipping the cup of tea that Frank had 
procured for her, when she bethought herself that she 
had not yet seen Patricia. 

“Have you seen Pat? It is not humanly possible that 
she has tucked herself in a corner !” 

His eyes were hungrily devouring her face, and linger- 
ing on her lips, so that she had the pleasant sensation of a 
secret caress. Mrs. Jacobs ! How ridiculous ! 

“I saw her disappear half an hour ago in a conspirator- 
like manner with Mr. Colin Paton, into that room over 
there.” 

He pointed to a closed door, which was the door of the 
library. 

“Nonsense. What have they got to conspire about?” 

There was a little frown between her brows. Colin 
was her friend. 

“Why do men and women usually conspire to be alone 
together ?” 

Without answering, Claudia crossed the hall, and 
abruptly turned the handle of the library-door. 

Seated close together, talking very earnestly, Pat more 
excited than she had ever seen her, were the two whom 
Frank had seen disappear half an hour before. As a 
matter of fact, it had only been ten minutes, but Frank 
had always had his doubts of Colin’s friendship. 

. .bushels of apples and immense quantities of ” 

Pat was saying, when her sister came in. “Oh ! Claudia, 
you have come. We’d almost given you up.” 

In an utterly different style from her own, Patricia 
was looking most attractive that afternoon. She had on a 


262 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


soft white charmeuse gown, which showed the long lines 
of her figure, and clung around her in a manner calcu- 
lated to send her admirers crazy. The cool nonchalant 
look which she usually wore had given place to something 
more intense, more human. Something seemed to have 
aroused her from her virginal slumber, and is not that 
brightness in the eyes, that flush on the cheek, generally 
aroused by a male? Claudia took all this in at a glance, 
and it was not till afterwards that she had time to 
reflect on the odd subject-matter of their earnest con- 
versation. 

“I wondered where you were,” said Claudia, rather 
frigidly. “How do you do, Colin ? I think mother wants 
you, Pat.” It was a fib, but she had to explain her 
entrance. 

Then she turned with a sweet but cold smile to Colin 
Paton, who had quietly risen. 

“I hear you have written a great book and are going to 
become famous. Congratulations! I must buy a copy 

as soon as it comes out Frank, I want some more 

tea. I’m so thirsty.” 

Pachmann was playing as they made their way back to 
the tea-room, his fairy-like fingers lightly caressing the 
keys into exquisite joyousness. 

“I want you to come to the studio to dinner next 
Monday,” said Frank eagerly. “You always said you’d 
like to meet Henry Bridgeman and his wife if I could 
arrange it?” Claudia was a great admirer of Bridge- 
man’s etchings. “Well, they are coming to dinner at the 
studio on Monday. Will you come too?” 

“Of course, I shall be delighted,” returned Claudia, 
not even troubling to*/think of her engagements. “I shall 
love it. And” — with a hard laugh — “I’ll come for a 

sitting to-morrow if you like, before I go to Fay 

Dear, you mustn’t say such things here. It’s compro- 
mising.” A loud chord on the piano, immediately fol- 


WHY NOT? 263 

lowed by the sound of a man's voice, made her raise a 
warning finger. “Hush !” 

The words came clearly enough to both of them as they 
stood together. 

“Ah! fill the Cup, what boots ft to repeat, 

How Time is slipping underneath out feet: 

Better be jocund with the fruitful grape 
Than sadden after none, or bitter fruit.” 

It was Liza Lehmann’s setting, and the accompaniment 
thundered and rumbled, and then softened down to a 
plaintive, appealing melody. It might have been the 
voice of Circe herself, beckoning, alluring, promising. . . . 

“Ah! love, could you and I with Fate conspire 
To grasp the sorry scheme of things entire 
Would we ” 

After all, why had she so many scruples? How did 
she come to be possessed of them ? Why did she hesitate 
to grasp her happiness? 

She looked up and found Colin Paton’s eyes fixed upon 
her, and they wore an expression she did not know. 

Then she heard Frank’s voice murmuring in her ear. 
“Claudia, if you only knew how much I love you. If 
you would only trust yourself to me. Why are you 
afraid?” 

“I don’t know,” she said truthfully, “I don’t know.” 

She gave him a particularly tender smile, out of sheer 
feminine perverseness, impelled by something that rankled 
and festered within her. Colin Paton should be made to 
understand that there was at least one man who was a 
real friend to her, yes, and might be more. 

“Turn down an empty Glass ” 

Why not? 


CHAPTER XVI 


nature's fault 

C LAUDIA was leisurely dressing for the dinner 
a quatre at Frank's studio, leisurely, because there 
was something in the warm May air, stealing in through 
the windows, that made her dawdle and dream. She 
and Pat had motored out into the country that morning, 
and lunched at a quaint old inn covered with wistaria, 
just outside Penshurst, and the spell of the country, with 
its riot of scent and song, still possessed her. She 
thought of the hedges, with their tender greens ; the young 
grass studded with gold and silver, for the buttercups 
and daisies were gaily blooming ; the lilac in the cottage- 
gardens, just bursting into exquisite flower; the prim- 
roses with their pale beauty, nestling at the roots of the 
trees; the fruit blossom making a poem in delicate 
pinks and whites. She looked at the bowl of wild hya- 
cinths she and Pat had gathered as excitedly as a couple 
of Cockney children, and she wished that she could 
have stayed in fairyland a little longer. She had been 
so happy for a few hours, for she loved the country. 
She had put away all the problems that beset her, and 
she had let the sweet perfection of Nature soothe her 
into something closely resembling peace. She had given 
264 


NATURE’S FAULT 


265 


herself up to its healing, and she was still between it 
and noisy nerve-racking London as she donned her 
clothes. In accordance with her mood, she had chosen 
to wear a simple, almost girlish dress of faint pinks, 
that reminded her of the orchards they had passed 
through, and, as a finishing touch to remind her of their 
excursion, she pinned some primroses on her corsage. 
Their delicate perfume was like fresh honey. 

Her maid noticed that she looked very young that 
night, with the dreams in her eyes and on her lips, even 
younger than her twenty-three years. Usually she looked 
much older, for her self-possessed manner, inherited 
from her mother, her dignified carriage and air of savoir 
faire might have belonged to a woman of twenty-eight. 
To-night she almost had the illusion that she was still 
an unmarried girl, with The Great Choice before her. 
The soft, warm air seemed to breathe love, to say, “Take 
your fill of its sweetness, your life is still to make.” The 
impassioned song of the birds, the riot and colour, the 
bursting life in bud and blossom, what did it all say, but : 

"Come, all lovers, to the feasting, 

Where the wine of life is yeasting, 

Soul of human, brute or flower, 

This your purest, fullest hour 
Drink your fill of Love's own brew.” 

Even Rhoda Carnegie’s cynical words the previous 
evening at the Prime Minister’s dinner-party seemed part 
of the day. “Is love to be confined within the small 
circlet of a wedding-ring ? Why, it would be like trying 
to pour the sea into a thimble.” After all, most intelli- 
gent people nowadays scoffed at the wedding-service, with 
its “forevers” and “till death.” Those ideas had all 
been swept away. 

As she rearranged the wild hyacinths for the mere 
pleasure of touching them, she asked herself if there still 


266 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


lingered any belief in those “forevers.” Honestly, no. 
She did realize that love is too big a thing to be confined 
within a wedding-ring. It was not that kind of scruple 
that held her back. Love, as she had once said before 
her marriage, was the only convention she owned. She 
recalled the words of James Hinton. “Love, and do as 
you please.” Many people had taken this as their text 
for lax morality, but they had not understood him rightly. 
It was not an easy saying, but a hard one. Love ! How 
often did one love in a lifetime? She had thought she 
loved Gilbert, and she really had at the time. But his 
neglect and coldness had killed her love. Could a great 

love be killed? Many waters cannot quench love ” 

was that not merely the high standard which we should 
all try and uphold, but can never attain to? An im- 
possible standard, surely, except for rare, ethereal beings 
without sexual instincts, strong human needs. 

“And I don’t want an ethereal love,” she said aloud. 

The dachshund, who had been slumbering peacefully 
on the couch, awoke, and looked at her interrogatively. 
His faithful soul was afraid she had called him. 

“Only talking to myself, Billiken,” she said, smiling 
at him. “Why, even you, Billie — I am your little world, 
your sun and your moon and your stars, but you like me 
to stroke and pat you. Oh, Billie ! I must be first with 
someone. I don’t belong to anyone really, not of my 
own free will, and I want to so much, so much. I’m not 
strong enough to stand alone. I don’t want to stand 
alone.” 

She was first with Frank, the only thing that mattered 
in his life. He had told her so often and often. Perhaps, 
yes, perhaps she would give herself to him, and make him 
happy, make herself happy. Stupid Jack had said that 
illicit relations with a man would never make her happy. 
But he was an ass, anyway. Why should not Frank 
make her happy? Why should Circe’s daughter not be 


NATURE’S FAULT 


267 


happy as, apparently, her mother had been? Perhaps 
Circe had gone through a similar period of happiness 

and hesitation before she No, she could not honestly 

follow that line of argument. Her mother had only made 
a marriage of convenience, her father had never counted 
at all, and she knew instinctively, without any harsh 
judgment, that Circe had an entirely different nature from 
her own. There were no subtle shades of feeling in her 
mother, no understanding of intellectual and emotional 
heights. Claudia had discovered that as a child. Her 
mother never shared her enthusiasm for books or pic- 
tures, she would have looked with but languid interest 
that morning at the blue mist of the hyacinths stretching 
far away under the trees. Claudia had felt like shouting 
as she and Pat turned the corner and saw the beautiful 
carpet at their feet, but her mother would only have 
feared that she might be getting her feet damp on the 
grass. No, the example of Circe taught her nothing. 
They were mother and daughter, but they were different. 

She went to the window and leaned out, looking up at 
the darkly blue sky and the steady stars, which watched 
in remote peacefulness over the traffic of Knightsb ridge. 

Her only justification now or at any time would be the 
strength of her love. She had her heritage of passion, 
but something that had not restrained her mother would 
always restrain her. Did she love Frank? He loved 
her, she never doubted that, but did she love him? She 
asked herself if the secrecy of such relationship would 
not harass her? Would the stolen meetings be the 
sweeter for the necessary secrecy, or would there not be 
a certain degradation in the whispered rendezvous? She 
could hear herself as a girl calling it, with fine youthful 
dogmatism, a “hole-and-corner” business. Did love save 
it from that reproach ? 

At the back of her Billie barked sharply, and with- 
drawing her head from the window, Claudia heard two 


268 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


voices raised in unusual excitement outside her door. 
She went across to it and threw it open. 

She just caught the end of a sentence spoken by her 
husband in his most dictatorial, angry tones, “....you 
can take a month’s notice. I refuse to overlook the 
matter. I have enough affairs on my hands without 
keeping a man I cannot rely on. You can go.” 

The man, who was an excellent valet, answered with 
considerable conviction. “You did not tell me, sir. I 
know you did not. You may have thought you did, but 
you did not say anything about the suit-case.” 

The man went towards the servants’ quarters, and 
Gilbert, turning, saw her in the doorway. His face was 
very unbeautiful in its anger. He looked almost apoplec- 
tic, his skin was so red and mottled. He had grown 
lately to look many years older than his age. 

“Gilbert, did I hear you giving Marsh notice to go? 
He is such an excellent servant. What has he done ?” 

He came inside and sat down on the couch, breathing 
rather heavily. For a moment he seemed unable to 
answer. 

“Forgot some instructions I gave him this morning, 
and then had the impertinence to say I never gave them. 
How” — irritably — “could I forget such an important 
thing?” 

He was pulling himself together by an effort, but his 
mouth twitched. 

“Was it very important?” 

“Yes. I told him to send my dress-suit to my cham- 
bers. I was going down to a political dinner at Wynnstay” 
— Wynnstay was his father’s home — “I thought the bag 
was there, and when I went to catch the train — Imbecile ! 
Most important. I haven’t told you. I expect to stand 
for Parliament shortly. Father finds the responsibility 
too much, and, of course, the seat is safe.” 

“But, Gilbert,” expostulated Claudia, contrary to her 


NATURE’S FAULT 


269 


latter custom of listening, if not in agreement, in non- 
disagreement, “you have too much to do already. Don’t 
you think ” 

“Oh, don’t rub it in, for heaven’s sake Besides, 

I’ve promised Neeburg to take a holiday I’m certain 

I told Marsh about packing my clothes.” 

“He is usually very reliable.” 

“Oh, well! have it as you like. But any man with 
as many things to remember as I have, would be liable 
to forget — trifles. Doctors are so ridiculously bigoted.” 
His face was slowly becoming an unhealthy white, the 
redness was fading away. He looked at her obviously 
asking her to agree with him. Neeburg had scared him 

a little but Neeburg didn’t understand the strain of 

a barrister’s work. Claudia was only a woman and, of 

course, she wouldn’t understand either No good 

trying to explain. A long sea voyage .... six months’ 

rest ridiculous! A fortnight at Le Touquet would 

set him up.... a man knew his own constitution best. 
But perhaps it was just as well he had been prevented 
from going to Wynnstay that evening. . . . He was a 
little tired. He would have an early dinner and go to 
bed by ten. 

He became aware that she was regarding him in a 
critical, impersonal way, which, though he was relieved 
she had ceased to expect wildly enthusiastic responses 
to her exalte moods, somehow annoyed him. No woman, 
especially a wife, had any right to look so at a man. 

“Why are you staring at me?” he asked, with a frown. 

“I was wondering why Nature took the trouble to 
bring us together. I have been in the country all day, 
and there she seemed so gentle, so beneficent, so sympa- 
thetic. You felt like throwing yourself down among the 
daisies on the grass and saying, ‘Take me, everything 
you do must be good and wise.’ And in reality Nature 
is so cruel, so horribly cruel. Passion is Nature’s greatest 


270 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


force after self-preservation, and I wonder how many 
thousands of lives it ruins. I never realized until recently 
that ‘Love is cruel as the grave’ meant that.” 

“Are you blaming me for our marriage ? I never per- 
suaded you into it against your will.” 

“No. Nature persuaded me into it, and Nature made 
these soft, delicate primroses.” She touched the flowers 
at her breast. “Surely it seems strange that so much 
gentle beauty and sordid cruelty should go hand-in- 
hand ?” 

He raised his thick, heavy eyebrows. He was feeling 
better now. Perhaps, after all, he would go down to 
the club on the chance of seeing Mathews about that 
case on Tuesday. , 

“Nature has only one object in bringing men and 
women together,” he said slowly. Her words had 
reminded him of his father’s and mother’s grievance and 
hints. His father had mentioned it when he suggested 
giving up his seat in Parliament to him, and made it the 
text for a diatribe against the modern woman and her 
absent sense of duty. After all, his father was right. A 
man ought to have a son. “You know, Claudia, while 
we are speaking on this matter, my father and mother 
are very disappointed that ” 

“Don’t !” she said sharply, the girlish, wistful look gone 
from her face. “How can you talk about that — now. 

Have you no sense of delicacy — of — of decency ?” 

She drew in her breath with a jerk. “Don’t ever speak 
again, please, of your parents’ disappointment. I know 
you have always considered them before me, but this 
is the limit. ... You don’t love me — you never did love 
me. I will not bear children to a man who does not 
love me.” 

He shrugged his shoulders and rose from the sofa. 
She had turned away from him, only her back was 
visible. The dress was cut in a low, V-shaped opening, 


NATURE’S FAULT 


271 


and there were two pretty dimples that invited a man’s 
kisses. But her husband did not notice them, he had 
never noticed them, and he saw only the back of a neu- 
rotic, unreasonable woman. He was going towards the 
door when she stopped him. 

“Gilbert, do you remember that afternoon at War- 
grave, when I asked you if I came first. ... I asked if 

you loved me a great deal Why did you lie to me ? 

Your work, your ambition, have always come first, and 
after the first few months of our marriage, I have meant 
nothing to you.” She spoke quite calmly, with none of 
the heat and excitement she had shown on the night she 
had come back from the Rivingtons. “Gilbert, please 
answer a straight question. Why did you tell me that 
lie?” 

“It wasn’t a lie. I meant it. Only you women are 
so exacting and ” 

She slowly inclined her head. 

“I see. Perhaps you weren’t aware at the time it was 
a lie. You never have analysed your emotions. You 
meant it — at the moment. Passion had got both of us 
by the throat. I loved you, but although I didn’t realize 
it, passion blinded my eyes to your real character and 
how unsuitable we were to one another. And passion 
urged you on to marry me, when you ought to have 
married a nice, tame woman who would have been con- 
tent with occasional crumbs. Oh! why does Nature 
bring the wrong people together ! Why ! Why ! Gilbert, 
I wish we had been lovers instead of husband and wife, 
then — then the mistake would not have been irrevocable.” 

He was genuinely shocked. “Claudia, I would rather 
not listen to such things. Really, the licence women 

allow themselves nowadays I can’t think how such 

ideas enter your head.” 

She smiled, with a touch of amusement as well as a 
tinge of sadness, as she answered him : 


272 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


“All sorts of unorthodox ideas get into women’s heads 
nowadays. I know you can’t understand, and that’s the 
trouble. You were made one way and I another, and 
then there came a whirlwind and threw us together.” 
She held out her hand. “Don’t let’s quarrel any more. 

I begin to see things more clearly I was cheated by 

Nature, not by you. But. . . .certain things you were — 
going to speak about, are quite impossible. Those days 
are gone for ever. We must each in our own way make 
the best of the remainder of our life.... Have you 
decided to go to Le Touquet at once?” 

He was puzzled by her new attitude and the calmness 
of the frank brown eyes that confronted him. 

“Yes, I promised Fritz to get away as soon as possible. 
I’ve asked Colin to go over with me. I knew you 
wouldn’t want to leave town just now, at the beginning 
of the season.” He had not considered the possibility 
of her going with him, but something in her new, almost 
friendly, attitude, made him add the last sentence. 

“I will come if you wish it, Gilbert.” 

Fie hesitated. She played golf much better than he. 
So did Colin, but that was different. The primitive man 
was strong in Gilbert. 

“I think it’s hardly worth while disarranging your plans. 
You’ve got heaps of engagements, haven’t you?” 

“Yes, but ” 

*Tf Colin can come, we’ll just take it quietly; golf 
all day and go to bed early. A fortnight of that will 
soon pick me up. Later on in the summer we’ll go for 
a holiday together.” 

“Very well.” 

He went towards the door again, and Claudia picked 
up a light wrap for her shoulders. She would be rather 
late for Frank’s dinner-party. 

At the door he fidgeted with the handle and finally 
turned to her. “Perhaps I did forget to tell Marsh, 


NATURE’S FAULT 


273 


Claudia. Smooth him over, will you? You’re good at 
that kind of thing. Tell him that — er — I’ve come to the 
conclusion that — he didn’t hear me.” 

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him why he did 
not tell Marsh himself. Then she remembered her new- 
born resolution, and let him go his own road. 

“I’ll seq what I can do in the morning. Good-night, 
Gilbert.” 


CHAPTER XVII 


THE GREAT THRESHOLD 


HE small dining-room of Frank’s studio-flat had 



A that cosy, friendly air that only a small room can 
achieve. That there was little more space than was 
occupied by the table laid for four only seemed to in- 
crease the pleasantness of the apartment, which was lit 
by four red candles in old pewter candlesticks on the 
table. Their red shades confined the circle of light to 
the white tablecloth, and allowed the rest of the room 
to appear pleasantly soft and vague. An enormous bowl 
of red roses filled the centre of the table, and some of 
their broken petals were scattered over the cloth, while 
an Eastern scarf of some filmy material shading from 
orange to blood-red was loosely disposed with an air of 
artistic negligence around the centre bowl. 

Frank Hamilton looked down at his handiwork and 
found it good. But still he fidgeted with the back of a 
chair as he surveyed it, and his eyes were bright with 
some mental or physical excitement. He was not often 
restless, but to-night his nerves were evidently on edge. 
His teeth gnawed) his lower lip and his eyes constantly 
sought the clock. 

Then, after giving a last touch to the table, he pulled 
out a bunch of keys from his pocket and unlocked a 


274 


THE GREAT THRESHOLD 


275 


corner cupboard where he kept liqueurs and wines. He 
never forgot to lock that cupboard, no matter how late 
his company left or how high his visions had soared, for 
he had a great mistrust of servants. His usual manner 
was half dreamy, rather abstracted, as though the sordid 
details of everyday life passed him by, but the impression 
that he gave was misleading. Often his mind was most 
practical when his eyes seemed only to hold vague dreams 
and beautiful, unworldly ideals, and if anyone thought 
to drive an easy bargain at such a time he found him- 
self mistaken. As a child at school Frank had always 
managed to elude just punishment by that same manner 
of aloofness from desks and copybooks, and from quite 
early manhood women had taught him to realize how 
that air, combined with obvious good looks and the repu- 
tation for ‘‘temperament,” could be made valuable. The 
way in which his eyes would light up with sudden enthu- 
siasm, the frank expressions of admiration which came 
easily to his lips, the appeal which he made by a seem- 
ingly exclusive devotion to the woman of the moment, 
had always made him a favourite with the fair sex, who 
contrasted him with the more phlegmatic males of their 
acquaintance to his great advantage, for “it’s the high- 
falutin stuff the women bite on.” 

Men did not like Frank Hamilton, and he was seldom 
seen in their company. A few artists dropped in on him 
occasionally to talk “shop,” but they were never heard 
to speak of him with any enthusiasm. Indeed, among 
them he had the reputation for being “close,” and that 
happy-go-lucky, jovial crowd that lends and borrows with 
equal ease found this unforgivable. He was not willing 
to “part,” nor did he try to put commissions in their 
way, and lately, as de Bleriot had been heard to say at 
the Chelsea Arts Club, “Hamilton’s getting altogether 
too big for his boots.” 

After Frank had put the liqueurs on the sideboard, 


276 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


he noticed that the card which had been attached to the 
bunch of roses he had just arranged had fallen to the 
ground. He picked it up and re-read it with a little 
smile of amusement. 

“To the greatest of artists and my dear friend. M.J.” 

With a laugh, he tore it up into fragments and threw 
the pieces in the fire. “Maria Jacobs! Maria Jacobs! 
Well, the roses have come in handy” — mockingly — 
“thank you, Maria.” 

As the last fragment was consumed, the door-bell rang, 
and he went out into the hall to receive his visitor. 

“I am afraid I am a little late,” apologized Claudia, 

letting him take her cloak, “but Oh, well! the 

Bridgemans are later, it seems, so I shan’t apologize any 
more.” 

He drew her into the dining-room and kissed her. 

“Don’t! You are crushing the poor primroses. Are 
they not sweet? Don’t you love the frailty and delicate 
sweetness of wild flowers?” 

She was very sweet herself as she said it, her eyes 
taking in approvingly the decorations of the table. But 
she was also to him still a little grande dame , with her 
dignified carriage and her head held high. For a moment 
doubt knocked at his confident heart. It would all de- 
pend how she took his news. The next few minutes 
would decide his fate. 

“Claudia, I have a disappointment for you. I have 
just had a wire from the Bridgemans. She is ill and they 
cannot come.” He was watching her narrowly, although 
the words were spoken easily enough. “There was no 
time to get another couple. The wire arrived a few 
minutes ago. You can see the table is set for them. 
Do you mind, dearest?” 

For a moment she hesitated. She had a curious sudden 


THE GREAT THRESHOLD 


277 


feeling of fright, like someone who sees a gate closing 
behind her. 

“Of course,” he said lightly, “it’s not quite contme 
il faut, but neither you nor I care about that, do we? 
We will go to a restaurant if you prefer. It's a pity the 
Bridgemans didn’t let me know sooner.” 

The room was very cozy and inviting. The situation 
was compromising; but then, as Frank said, did she care 
about small conventionalities? No one would know. It 
was only Mother Grundy who would drive them forth 
to a noisy, rag-time restaurant where they would hardly 
be able to hear one another speak. The country air had 
made her agreeably tired, so that the mellow light of the 
candles and the room perched high above the traffic ap- 
pealed to her mood. Had he made the least attempt to 
persuade her she would not have stayed, but he was 
wise enough to make it seem a matter of indifference 
where they dined so long as they were together. 

“I’m tired of the clatter of restaurants,” she said, 
sinking into a chair by the hearth; “and I smell a smell 
of savoury baked meats. It’s very peaceful here at 
night.” 

“Marshall isn’t at all a bad cook,” returned Frank 
lightly, “and I told her to think out a specially nice 
dinner.” 

“For the Bridgemans or — for me?” 

The momentary sensation of panic had passed. He 
was just as he always was, devoted, deferential, entirely 
at her command. 

“For the Bridgemans, or course. Need you ask?” He 
took the pretty arm lying on the arm of the chair and 
let his lips gently slip along the skin from the elbow to 
the wrist. “Claudia, I can’t think of anyone but you 
these days.” 

“Just an infatuation!” she laughed provocatively, a 
thrill running through her. 


27 8 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


“Are you sorry that I am so infatuated? Would you 
have me more cool and reasonable ? You told me once that 
you hated tepid people. Have you changed your ideas?” 

“No.” 

“Then why Ah! here is the soup. Madame est 

servie. Will she graciously adorn this chair?” 

“How charming! It’s Jacobean, isn’t it? I shall en- 
joy sitting in it.” 

Part of the face was in shadow, but the light fell full 
on the soft, curving lips, very sweet and gracious to- 
night, the firm, well-moulded chin, and the exquisite line 
of the bare neck and shoulders. 

“Do you know any of the other tenants in the building, 
Frank?” she asked over her soup. 

“No. Why do you ask?” 

“Colin Paton knows an architect further down, 
Leonard Gost. I wonder if you knew him too.” 

Frank shook his head. “No, but I happened to hear 
this morning that he had been suddenly taken ill. The 
doctor came here by mistake. Don’t let’s talk about 
Paton.” 

“Why ? Don’t you like him ?” 

“I’m jealous of every man you even see. That day I 
came in and found him holding your hand I could have 
slain him.” 

She smiled, and then the smile suddenly vanished and 
was replaced by a more though ful expression. 

“Are you, then, jealous of my husband?” she asked 
suddenly. 

The question was unexpected, and for a moment he 
had no answer ready. 

“Why, yes; of course, I ” 

“No, I see you are not. How curious! I think if 
I were in love with a married woman I should be mor- 
bidly jealous of her husband. My imagination would 
torture me, the grey matter in my brain would turn a 


THE GREAT THRESHOLD 


279 


bright orange with jealous hate.” She had never spoken 
to him of her relations with her husband. He had never 
asked any questions, and she had volunteered no informa- 
tion. But sometimes she had wondered that Frank could 
take his existence and rights so calmly. 

“But you do not love' him,” objected Frank; “if you 
loved him I should hate him.” 

“I did love him — once.” 

“A man who has failed to keep his wife’s love deserves 
to lose it,” said Frank glibly, who was opening the 
champagne. 

“Frank, you say you love me. Suppose I said I was 
tired of the life I lead, that there is something in me 
that shrinks from deception, that I like all the cards on 
the table. Would you take me away?” 

The cork popped loudly at the moment, and he had to 
quickly pour some of the champagne into her glass. 

“Darling, I should only be too proud. You ought to 
know that.” 

Was it his preoccupation with the champagne, or was 
there something wrong with his tone or his words ? What 
had she expected him to say? Then she pulled herself 
together with a laugh. 

“To love is human, to marry — sometimes divine. Don’t 
be afraid, mon ami . I’m not cut out for those heroics, 
or,” she added, “you either.” 

He was inwardly relieved, for a man could never be 
sure what a highly-strung, emotional woman like Claudia 
would expect of him. She was adorable, she was well- 
born and clever, but — no, he was not cut out for 
“heroics.” As much as he could be, he was desperately 
in love with her; it was perfectly true that the thought 
of her obsessed his days and nights. But love to him 
was a pleasant thing,, a serious light-mindedness in which 
a little pretence was necessary on either side. They 
might sigh together over the impossibility of spending 


28 o 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


their lives together; they might regret that they had not 
met before she entered into the legal compact ; they might 
even indulge in rosy dreams of a future if she “ever 
became free,” but they would be very careful not to en- 
danger her reputation or cause her spouse to set her free. 
Bourgeois born, reared among ideals of hypocritical re- 
spectability, Frank Hamilton had secretly a horror of 
anything outre , such as the Divorce Court. It would 
probably make very little difference to his career as an ar- 
tist, but his innate conventionality revolted at the thought. 

“If you would trust yourself to me, I would try and 
prove worthy of your bounty,” he said humbly. “My 
dearest, you wring my heart by these doubts of me. Don’t 
you yet believe in my love?” 

She was playing with the wing of a chicken. 

“How can one tell love from passion ? Do you 
know ?” 

“I’ll ask you a question. Do you believe that love 
between a young normal woman and man can exist with- 
out passion?” 

His eyes challenged hers over the deep red roses. 
There was a little flush on her creamy cheeks now, and 
the primroses were fading whitely at her breast. There 
was a current of electricity in the little room going from 
him to her. She fancied she could almost hear the 
beating of the wings. 

“No, passion must be part of love.” 

“And you wouldn ? t care for a man who was content 
merely to love you at a respectful distance? No, you 
needn’t answer. I know you wouldn’t. You’re much too 
alive for that. You are much too passionate. A placid, 
hold-my-hand love would never make you happy. . . . 
Shall we have coffee upstairs in the studio?” 

She nodded. The atmosphere of the little room seemed 
to have become too close. She was aware that her cheeks 
were burning. 


THE GREAT THRESHOLD 


281 


She knew that she stood on the Great Threshold. It 
was only fair to Frank that she should decide to-night. 
She knew by this time enough of men to realize that self- 
repression, self-control are foreign to their nature and 
upbringing. She was content, or she could have forced 
herself to be content, with the indefinite relations between 
them. Something urged her across the threshold, and 
yet something that she could not grasp or define held 
her back. She remembered a phrase from a play she had 
seen a few days previously, in which a man had spoken 
of “woman’s innate purity.” Could she lay claim to 
such a possession? Clearly, no. She had dallied with 
the idea, she had let Frank kiss her time and again 
without any repugnance. A pure-minded woman would 
have repulsed him at the outset. She would have said, 
“I am a married woman. Only my husband has a right 
to my caresses.” 

“I have forgotten the cigarettes. I’ll run down for 

them, if you’ll excuse me a minute.” 

She nodded as she made herself comfortable on the 
low divan covered with cushions. 

The Great Threshold! Her heart beat faster as she 
contemplated it. She wondered in what fashion the 
married women she knew had stepped across it — gaily, 
impulsively, with reckless abandonment, with inward 
shrinking, with cool deliberation — how? La Rochefou- 
cauld once said, “Some ladies may be met with who 
never had any intrigue at all, but it will be exceedingly 
hard to find any who have had one and no more,” but 

then, he was only a maxim-monger, and the making of 

maxims, like the making of epigrams, is only a trick. 
If she crossed it, there would only be Frank. They 
would love one another secretly, and the stolen hours 
together would make her barren life more tolerable. 
Jack had made out that liaisons were nothing more than 
licentious flirtations. If two people really loved 


282 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


Moved by a restless spirit, she rose and went over to 
the mantelpiece. Her eyes fell with a start on a visiting- 
card inscribed colin paton. 

Her hands fell nervelessly to her sides. Somehow 
there seemed a third person in the room. Frank came 
back and handed her the box of cigarettes. 

She indicated the card. 

“Mr. Paton — has been here? Thank you.” 

“Yes. I asked him to come some time, and he came 
to-day. He said he wanted to see how your portrait was 
getting on.” 

“What did he say about it?” 

“I didn’t show it to him,”- said Frank, with a touch 
of arrogance. “Besides, it isn’t quite finished, and no 
artist likes to expose an unfinished picture.” 

“It’s practically finished. I needn’t come any more 
for it?” 

“We won’t tell people it’s finished,” he whispered, close 
to her ear. “We will pretend it is still only half- 
finished.” 

The words jarred, and she drew away from him. Yet 
he was quite right. If she crossed the threshold, she 
must in future take refuge in such subterfuges. She 

must lie to everyone, to honest Pat, to Colin Paton 

Her brows met in a frown. Could love thrive in such 
an atmosphere? Frank seemed to have thought the 
whole thing out, counted on her surrender — How dared 
he? — and yet — She had certainly encouraged him, there 
was no gainsaying that. 

“Let us look at the picture again,” she said abruptly. 
“I’d like to see it by nightlight.” 

With a smile he complied, classing her with the other 
vain women who had sat to him. She wanted to look on 
her own beauty. He pulled forward the easel and took 
off the cloth. 

It was one of the best bits of painting he had ever 


THE GREAT THRESHOLD 


283 


done. He had worked hard on it, and it had but slightly 
the faults that usually marred his work. He had put 
in careful, conscientious brush-work; and in combination 
with the arresting individuality of the sitter, the result 
was one of which he might justly be proud. 

But as Claudia gazed on it, dissatisfaction stirred with- 
in her. The yellowish lights — the electric globes were 
of some daffodil tint — made her see it as she had never 
done before. The eyes were surely too ardent, the curve 
of the lips too sensual, the whole face had a curious 
voluptuousness that made her recoil from the picture. 
Did she give people that impression ? 

“Is it — exactly like me?” she asked. 

“It’s as I see you/’ he said complacently. “My beau- 
tiful Claudia! It is good, isn’t it? I think it will create 
a sensation when it is exhibited.” 

Suddenly she knew that she hated it, that she did not 
want the world to see it, to stare at it, to comment on 
it. Yes, she was glad Colin had not seen it. He might 
have thought 

“I don’t like it.” 

If she had suddenly held a pistol at his head he could 
not have been more surprised. He turned from his very 
self-satisfied contemplation of the picture and stared at 
the original. And it was not the woman of the portrait 
he saw, nor the flushed, hesitating woman of the dinner- 
table, but a woman whose eyes were wide open and 
startled, as though some new aspect of life had struck 
her; a woman who was fighting for self-mastery, calling 
to her aid that pride and moral fastidiousness that were 
innate in her, and which lately she had been trying to 
keep out of sight. 

She was not the woman, she told herself, she never 
would be the woman of the picture. That was not a 
woman with true love and passion in her eyes, it was 
mere animal sensuality. Yet she was aware that she 


284 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


might become that woman if she crossed the threshold. 
Dare she take the risk ? Did she want to take the risk ? 

“I don’t understand.” 

She had never heard him speak so angrily. Yes, he 
was really angry. His artistic pride was wounded. 

“It’s very clever, very clever,” she stammered, “but I 
— I don’t like the way you have depicted me. It isn’t 
the nicest — me.” 

His eyes were very light and very cold as he faced 
her, and suddenly they seemed to be bright and shallow, 
like those of a bird. His lips made a thin red line, and 
a hardness of the lines of the jaw became noticeable. 

“Frank, don’t you understand?” she pleaded. “There, 
in the picture, you have made me an amoureuse, une 
grande amoureuse, and I — I don’t think I’m really that.” 
Then a little wildly — “It may be in me, I may have it in 

my blood, but I don’t want it to come out I’m 

sorry, Frank, but I don’t like it.” 

She saw, as she looked in his face, that he did not 
understand, that she could never make him understand. 
She had mortally wounded his pride. He would never 
forgive the thrust. 

Without a word he noisily pushed back the easel. 
Mechanically she sank down on the divan again, and as 
she disturbed one of the cushions, a piece of paper be- 
came uncovered. Before she realized that it might be pri- 
vate, her eyes had taken in the wording. It was the 
Bridgemans’ telegram — “Sorry wife ill. Cannot come to- 
morrow. Bridgeman.” 

With a last kick the easel was lodged in its place 
against the wall. She put the cushion over the telegram 
again, as he came back to the centre of the room like a 
sulky child, a cigarette drooping at the corner of his 
mouth. 

“You’re extremely difficult to please,” he said sarcas- 
tically. “I’m glad all my sitters are not so particular; 


THE GREAT THRESHOLD 


285 


You can’t say I haven’t done full justice to your looks.” 

That was all he could make out of her explanation, her 
confession! It was a shock, but it had the effect of 
steadying her. Her voice was very quiet and composed 
as she replied: 

“If you don’t mind, Frank, I won’t have the picture 
exhibited. After all, a portrait is a personal thing. Send 
it home to me as soon as it is finished.” She wanted to 
add “and I will send you a cheque for it,” but she was 
afraid of hurting his feelings. Nothing had ever been 
said about payment. It had been tacitly assumed that 
it was a labour of love. 

“I don’t think it’s fair to me,” he protested, still sulky, 
the man submerged in the artist. “It’s the best picture 
I have ever done. No woman can judge her own portrait. 
Besides, you never objected to it before.” 

“I always saw it quite close at hand and in the light 
of day. To-night, at the end of the room, it looks 
different.” 

“Well, commend me to women-sitters for change- 
ability!” he exclaimed bitterly. 

She put her hand on the cushion that concealed the 
telegram. He had evidently been sitting in her position 
when it arrived. 

“Perhaps — if the Bridgemans had come — they might 
have liked it, and their opinion is more valuable than 
mine. You only heard of her illness this evening?” 

“Yes,” he responded moodily, “just before you came 
in.” 

Petty trickery! She had nearly lent herself to that. 
Afterwards — yes, circumstances might have made it 

necessary, but before It was not, and it never could 

have been, love on either side. Love was a bigger, finer 
thing than that! Perhaps too large always to be con- 
fined within a wedding-ring, but this did not of itself 
overleap the bounds. Only the trickster passion again! 


286 


CIRCE'S DAUGHTER 


And passion she had proved to be a cheat, a miserable, 
mean cheat, that preyed on the emotions and ignorance 
of women. 

She suddenly felt very tired, and her face had gone 
pathetically white as she rose from the divan. 

“Frank, I am sorry I have hurt your feelings. I can 
only say again that I admire it as a piece of painting, 
immensely.... Now I must go home. It is getting 
rather late, and I think a day in the country tires one, 
don't you ?” 

Suddenly the man overcame the vanity of the artist. 
His eyes changed, and before she could stop him he had 
crushed her in his arms. 

“Never mind about the picture it's you I want and 

must have. ... I love you to distraction. . . . Claudia, 
you can’t hesitate any longer .... It’s Kismet, stronger 
than both of us." 

She knew it would only be an unseemly scuffle if she 
struggled, a scuffle that would abase her pride still 
further. She remained cold and lifeless in his arms, until, 
at last he released her and looked into her face with 
alarm. 

“Claudia, you’re not going — you shan’t go ’’ 

“Frank," she said clearly, but without an atom of fear 
in her eyes, “I apologize to you. I know I've what you 
men call ‘encouraged you.’ You have the right to be 
angry with me, only if you love me — don’t. . . . I — I 

thought I could I am very unhappy I didn't 

know myself until to-night There’s something that 

won’t let me cross the threshold I’m not good, and 

I’m not afraid of convention, but I can’t do it. . . . I 
should wake up to hate myself. It’s as well I found out 
in time — for you and for me." 

“You say you’re not afraid. You are afraid," he said. 

“I said I was not afraid of convention. It’s true I 
am afraid of something — in myself. I thought it was an 


THE GREAT THRESHOLD 


287 


easy game to play. Now I wonder how a woman can 
play it. . . . Let me go now, Frank. I’m very tired.” 

“You don’t love me?” 

“No. . . .not that way?” 

Her quiet voice, her steady eyes, frightened him. He 
knew he was playing a losing game, and he began to 
bluster. 

“You would love me. . . .you practically promised me 

everything you’ve just amused yourself with me, like 

other women in your set you run up an account, and 

you don’t pay the bill. . . .if you were a man I should 
call it damned dishonourable, but as you are a 
woman ” 

She stooped and drew forth the telegram. 

“And if I were a man, what should I call this?” 

The paper dropped from her hand and fluttered to the 
ground, where it lay between them. 

“It was through love of you,” he said desperately. 
“You shilly-shallied. .. .women always have ridiculous 

scruples I swear it was through love of you. 

You’ve driven me out of my wits.” 

She shook her head. There was no anger on her lips, 
only a drooping sadness. 

“I wonder if that’s all a man’s love can ever mean 
.... I wonder! Good-night, Frank. Let’s close this 
chapter — friends. There have been faults on both 
sides.” 

She held out her hand, but he turned away and flung 
himself on the divan with his head in his cushions. 

She waited a moment, and then she went out of the 
door and down the stairs that led to the living-rooms 
below. Surely he would see her out? Would not Mrs. 
Marshall think it curious that she should depart in such 
an odd fashion ? What a ludicrous finish to the evening ! 

The hall below was in darkness. She could see no light 
from the region of the kitchen. Was that, too, part of 


288 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


his experienced manoeuvring? She shivered, and groped 
for the electric switch. After some time she found it. 
Her cloak was lying on one of the hall chairs. 

Was he going to let her depart alone? How would 
she get a taxi ? It was half past eleven. Oh ! how tired 
she felt now. Her feet seemed leaden as she slipped 
the cloak round her shoulders. She cast one more glance 
up at the door of the studio. But it remained closed. 
His manners, with his hopes of her favours, had for- 
saken him. There had been something in Rhoda Car- 
negie’s remarks, after all. 

She opened the hall-door, and found the stone stairs 
only very dimly lit. She went heavily down them, for- 
getting that she might have summoned the lift. Her 
soft pink dress trailed after her, for she was too tired 
to hold it up. How unending the stairs were! Would 
she ever get to the bottom? How many flights was it 
— six? 

It seemed to her that she had been plodding down 
the stairs for ages, when suddenly a hall-door opened 
just as she was rounding a turn of the staircase. A 
voice said quietly, ‘Til come in to-morrow morning to 
see how he is getting on.” 

She had unconsciously shrunk back against the wall 
among the shadows, but at the recognition of his voice 
she exclaimed, she thought in a whisper, “Colin !” 

He stopped in the act of running down the stairs, and 
came back. But now she had no volition left to move 
backwards or forwards. He groped up the stairs, and 
saw the gleam of a diamond spray on her corsage. He 
went nearer and saw her. 

“Claudia! Claudia!” The first “Claudia” was 

pure astonishment, but the second held something more, 
something that seemed to match the look in his eyes 
when he had been watching hex flirting with Frank at 
her mother’s “at home.” 


THE GREAT THRESHOLD 289 

“Colin,” she said pitifully, “I’m so tired take me 

home. . . .please, take me home ” 

She stumbled a little, and he quietly put her hand 
through his arm. 

“It’s not worth summoning the lift it’s only two 

flights; lean on my arm.” 

She leaned more heavily than she knew, for all her 
spirit had gone, her springy step had deserted her, her 
head drooped sideways. 

Luckily there was a taxi passing, and in a few minutes 
she found herself beside him on the narrow seat. For a 
moment she sat motionless, hardly realizing his presence. 
Then, with a childish impulse for comfort, she put her 
head on his shoulder, and commenced to sob. 

“Colin, don’t think things I want to explain ” 

His hand closed firmly over her cold one, cold, though 
the night was quite hot. 

“Claudia, don’t there’s no need what are friends 

for?” 


CHAPTER XVIII 


DRUNK AND DISORDERLY 

C LAUDIA had slept but little that night, her thoughts 
going over the scene in the studio again and again, 
sometimes accusing herself, sometimes wondering at her- 
self. One fact stood out clearly. Frank had not loved 
her, nor she him. What had Colin thought when he 
found her crouching on the stairs? She had offered to 
explain — but what could she have said? 

With weary eyes and pale cheeks she took the letters 
from her maid’s hand. She was almost too tired to open 
them, but as the letters fell loosely on the coverlet, she 
saw one in Colin’s handwriting. With her heart beating 
fast, she picked it up and tore it open. For a moment she 
forgot that it had probably been posted before he brought 
her home from the studio. 

A letter and some printed matter fell out. She picked 
up the printed matter first. It was a page proof of a 
book, containing a dedication to herself. She read it with 
a queer feeling, but her apathy had gone. 

“To my Friend, Claudia Currey, 

whose sympathy and friendship have inspired me to 
put down on paper some facts I have been able to 
290 


DRUNK AND DISORDERLY 


291 


gather, together with some purely personal views on 
that most baffling and fascinating of all subjects — 
sociology. I beg her to accept the dedication of this 
book, with all its faults and shortcomings, of which 
the author is painfully aware, in memory of our 
many talks about ‘humans/ ” 

Her eyes filled with tears, and she could hardly read 
the letter that accompanied the page. 

“My dear Claudia,” it ran, “I was horribly disap- 
pointed, childishly disappointed the other day when you 
told me you had heard about my forthcoming book. I 
think you must have got it from some inside source, for it 
is not yet announced to the public. I wanted the enclosed 
to be a surprise to you, and now the squib won’t go off ! 
I asked and obtained Gilbert’s permission to put in this 
little dedication, because you really did inspire it. You 
always liked people who ‘did things,’ and your interest 
in life and ‘humans’ quickened mine. How dare you say 
you will order a copy as soon as it is out? You know 
you’ll get an advance copy, the very first. I do hope you 
will like it, at least, a little. Now it is in print, I realize 
what a little I have been able to say on a vast subject. 
All I can say in extenuation is, I’ve done my best, though 
perhaps I don’t deserve any marks for that. But it’s 
such a huge field to try and cover. Do you remember 
when you asked me for a book on the subject and I gave 
you Lecky’s ‘History of European Morals’? I’ve always 
been cheered by your remark after reading it. ‘Only a 
Methusaleh could hope to come to any definite conclu- 
sions, and then he might be ready to lie down and die !’ 

“There are no definite conclusions in my book, because 
I try hard to keep my mind plastic. Some day, when I’m 
a greybeard with stooping shoulders and several deaf 
ears, perhaps I’ll do something better. 


292 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


“Pm sending you a new ‘Lear Nonsense’ book. Rather 
jolly, I think. Do look at the picture of the German and 
the baby who is gedroppen. 

“Always your admiring friend, 

“Colin Paton.” 

The other letters lay unheeded. She dropped back 
among the pillows, and there was no movement of the 
head, or even the hand in which lay the letter. She might 
have been asleep. 

But when her maid, whose face betokened hesitation 
and perplexity, came in quietly, Claudia turned and 
opened her dark eyes. There were no tears in them, only 
a burning, unfathomable look which, though it envisaged 
Johnson clearly, did not notice her perturbed face. 

“Madam, I ” began Johnson, clearing her throat. 

“Did the master tell you he would not be coming home 
last night ?” 

Claudia came back from a remote distance. 

“Last night? No. He was only going to his club, I 
believe. Why, has he not slept in the flat?” 

“No, madam, and he did not say anything about stop- 
ping out to Marsh, and he didn’t have his bag packed. 
He thought he had told Marsh to pack it for him to go 
down to Wynnstay, but Marsh says ” 

“Yes, I remember. Perhaps he went down to Wynn- 
stay, after all, rather late.” It had never happened be- 
fore that Gilbert had been away from the flat without 
informing her or the servants; but Claudia saw nothing 
remarkable in the oversight. 

“Marsh thought so too, madam, and he got a trunk 
call through to Wynnstay, but he has not been there, and 
then he telephoned the club and — and they told him Mr. 
Currey was there last night and left about twelve o’clock. 
I — we thought we had better mention it, madam.” 

Claudia was roused to attention this time. Where 


DRUNK AND DISORDERLY 


293 


could Gilbert have got to after he left the club? There 
were some wives, she knew, who would have dismissed 
the matter with a shrug of their shoulders, but she had 
no complaint of Gilbert on that score. Perhaps he would 
have been more human and companionable had he had 
some of the weaknesses of the flesh. 

She looked at the clock. It was half-past nine. He 
was generally down at his chambers soon after nine. 

“Was he in evening-dress, Johnson, when he went out 
last night ?” 

“Yes, madam ; Marsh said he changed before he went 
out, and told him he was going to bed early, as he 
had a big case on to-day and wanted to be fresh for it.” 

Johnson looked at her for instructions, but Claudia 
knit her brows in perplexity. It was very curious, but 
it did not occur to her that there was anything seriously 
wrong. He must have gone home with some friend and 
turned in for the night. And yet — he had never done 
any such thing. He was essentially a man of routine 
and order. 

“I don’t think there is anything to be done, Johnson,” 
said Claudia, after a little thought. “Probably they will 
ring up from his office to say he has arrived all right. 
Ring them again and ask them to telephone immediately 
Mr. Currey comes in. And bring my coffee, please.” 

But when she had finished her coffee and toast there 
was still no word from the office, except that they had 
rung up rather agitatedly to know if Mrs. Currey had any 
idea where he could be found. By this time Claudia had 
become impressed with the idea that something was 
wrong. One was always hearing of motor accidents now- 
adays. Could anything of the kind have happened to 
Gilbert? 

Instinctively she turned to Colin Paton in the 
emergency. After they had silently bade one another 
good-bye last night she had thought she could never face 


294 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


him again, for if he did not think the worst of her he 
must have guessed that there had been some kind of a 
scene that had upset her. And on the top of it all his 
charming letter. 

But this happening made her put her own affaires du 
ccEtir on one side. If anything had happened to Gilbert, 
Colin would be able to find it out. She hardly realized 
how blind her faith in Colin was. She went to the 
telephone in her dressing-gown and called him up. 

“Colin! Oh! I am so glad you are there. I don’t 
know whether I ought to be alarmed or not, but Gilbert 
has not been home since eight o’clock last night, and he 
is not at the office. He took no suit-case out with him, 
and he was seen to leave the club at twelve o’clock. 
What ought I to do?” 

He answered her quite quietly, asking a few more ques- 
tions; but she knew his voice so well by now that she 
realized that he did not consider her an alarmist in ring- 
ing him up. 

“Don’t worry. I’ll go to the club and make some in- 
quiries, and telephone you later. Leave it to me.” 

“What do you think ?” she began timidly 

“I don’t know. But we must find him. I’ll keep in 
touch with you. Don’t be alarmed, Claudia.” 

“Thank you,” she replied humbly. “You — you are 
always very good to me.” 

There was a slight pause at the other end. “Don’t 
talk nonsense. When will you learn the meaning of 
friendship?” 

She went back to her dressing feeling more comforted, 
for the mere fact of having confided a trouble to him 
always seemed to halve it. He was essentially a man 
who inspired confidence, and Claudia wondered vaguely, 
as she brushed her hair, why some men were like that and 
others were not. His opinion was always sought after by 
his friends and acquaintances, and yet he never gave 


DRUNK AND DISORDERLY 


295 


it in any ponderous spirit. Sometimes he replied with a 
joke, or a happy allusion, but he gave an answer all the 
same. This reminded her of Patricia, who had said 
enthusiastically a few days previously, “He’s the most 
helpful man I ever knew.” Lately Pat had seen a good 
deal of him, and one or two people had remarked on it 
to Claudia, saying, “Is Pat going to settle down at 
last?” 

Was Colin Paton in love with Pat? What else could 
be the meaning of their frequent meetings and that 
seclusion in the library? She, Claudia, was only a great 
friend, and the little prick of jealousy she acknowledged 
to her self that she felt was natural to women where their 
men friends were concerned. All women hated losing 
their men friends by marriage. And — yes — Pat would 
make a charming wife if she fell in love. 

It was eleven o’clock — Gilbert’s case was on — and he 
had made no appearance. This much had just been tele- 
phoned from his office. Claudia was sure now that some- 
thing was seriously amiss. For Gilbert to neglect his 
work, some accident must have happened. 

She felt a restless desire to do something, to search for 
him herself ; but what could she do? Where could he be? 
Could he be lying in one of the great hospitals, unable 
to give an account of himself? 

Johnson came hurrying in. “Madam, Mr. Paton is on 
the telephone and wants to speak to you.” 

Claudia flew to the receiver. 

“Claudia, is that you? It’s all right, I’ve got him 
safe and sound. No, he’s not hurt. I’ll tell you more 
when I see you. I am bringing him back now. It’s a 
case of complete loss of memory; spent the night in the 
police cells as a drunk and disorderly — he must have been 
very excited. He is still dazed and suspicious of every- 
one. Don’t show there is anything amiss. Keep quite 
calm, and telephone Dr. Neeburg.” 


296 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


Gilbert locked up in the police-cells as drunk and dis- 
orderly ! It was unbelievable ! It was too ironic ! 
Though she no longer loved him, her heart was touched 
by pity for him. He must have known where he was, 
although he could not remember his name. What an 
awful time he must have had! 

But she immediately rang up Fritz Neeburg, who, she 
noted, did not seem startled at the news. He said he 
would come immediately. “I was afraid of something 
like this, Mrs. Currey,” he concluded. 

The strong constitution of which Gilbert had always 
boasted had given way. His pride would be in the dust. 
It would mean giving up work for some time. It meant 
a very bad break. 

Claudia was appalled when she saw the man who got 
out of the taxi with Colin. No man looks well after a 
night spent in his clothes, but Gilbert’s appearance had 
a wildness and dishevelment which was as much due to 
the brain as the body. His eyes were, bloodshot, there 
was a strong growth of hair on his chin which showed 
conspicuously, his shirt-front was rumpled and crushed 
as she had never seen any front, his mouth kept twitching 
and his walk was unsteady. But Claudia controlled her 
alarm and went forward with a smile. 

“You’ll like some breakfast, won’t you, Gilbert? Marsh 
has got some nice hot coffee for you in the dining- 
room.” 

Neeburg had not arrived, and she had not known what 
preparations to make, but she wanted to appear natural. 

Gilbert looked at her with a curious indifference; she 
could not make out if he knew her or not. 

“I think you’d like a bath first, old man, wouldn’t 
you?” said Colin cheerfully. “And some fresh clothes. 
This garb is unseemly in the morning.” 

He allowed Colin to lead him up the stairs, and in a 
few minutes Neeburg arrived and went after him. 


DRUNK AND DISORDERLY 


297 


In half an hour the two men came down together. 
“WeVe put him to bed, Mrs. Currey,” said Neeburg, 
“with a sleeping-draught. He’ll probably sleep twelve 
hours or so. That’s the best thing for him at present. 
He may wake up with his mind quite clear. It’s a case 
of mental aphasia, due to nerve-strain. I’ve given him 
the clearest warnings time after time. I’m very sorry, 
but he has brought it on himself.” 

“He had made up his mind to go to Le Touquet next 
week,” said Claudia. She looked at Colin. “You were 
going with him, were you not?” 

“He asked me, and I was trying to make arrangements. 
Can he go, doctor, as soon as he recovers a little ?” 

“The sooner the better. I’m glad you’re going with 
him. Keep him out in the open all day, and don’t let him 
talk or think about his work. Let him play golf, and 
keep him out of doors until he falls asleep directly he gets 
into bed. No stimulants whatever. Has he been sleeping 
badly lately, Mrs. Currey?” 

“Yes, he told me he seldom got to sleep till late in the 
morning.” 

“Madness! Sheer madness to neglect such warnings. 
Paton, I’ll have a talk with you before he goes. How 
did you find him?” 

“I got Carey Image to go the rounds of the hospitals 
in case it was an accident, and I went myself to all the 
police-stations. As a matter of fact, someone had just 
recognized him as I arrived at Bow Street. As far as I 
can make out, he took a stiff hot whiskey at the club 
before leaving — he told the waiter he thought he had a 
cold coming on — and went out into the night air. Owing 
to the taxi strike there were no cabs about, and after 
waiting a few minutes, Gilbert said he would walk.” 

“And the fresh air on top of the hot whiskey finished 
him,” commented Neeburg. “Was he very violent?” 

“So the policeman said. He thought it was an ordinary 


298 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


case of drunk and disorderly. He could hardly articulate, 
and couldn’t say where he lived or his name. The police- 
man says the more he tried to say it the more violent 
he became, and, as it happens, there was nothing in his 
pockets to identify him. He spent the night in an 
ordinary lock-up. It wasn’t the fault of the police.” 

“I hope this won’t get in the papers,” said Claudia 
thoughtfully. “You know how Gilbert would feel that, 
Colin ; can you ?” 

“I’ll try. I must go now. Ring up Pat and ask her 
to come and be with you. Good-bye, Neeburg; I’ll ring 
you up and fix an appointment..,..” He turned to 
Claudia. “You were splendid when he came in. It 
must have been rather a shock to you.” 

“Splendid! Colin, don’t laugh at me. I’m the least 
splendid of wfomen. I ought not to accept that dedica- 
tion. Take it out. I’m not worth it. If — if I don’t 
break all the sins in the Decalogue, it’s because — yes, I 
suppose it’s because I’m a coward.” 

She lifted her eyes miserably to his, and at what she 
read in his some of the anguish and self-abasement in her 
heart was softened. For a few moments they stood 
silent, only their eyes speaking. 

“Colin,” she whispered, her finger-tips playing with 
his coat, “do you still believe in me — after — last night?” 

“If you told me with your own lips that you had com- 
mitted all the sins in the Decalogue, I should not believe 
you. I think I know you, Claudia, better than you know 
yourself, and I believe in you more than you believe in 

yourself I shall be back in the afternoon, in case 

you want me.” 

He was gone, but Claudia went upstairs with a load 
taken off her heart. She did not try to analyse the mean- 
ing of it, she only knew that the sting had been taken 
out of her folly. 


CHAPTER XIX 


AN AMIABLE STUFFED ANIMAL 

1 DON’T understand it,” said Lady Currey, in tones 
of extreme annoyance, “my husband never had a ner- 
vous breakdown.” 

She was lunching tete-a-tete with Claudia at the flat, 
for she and her husband had quartered themselves most 
considerably upon her (Erectly they had heard of Gil- 
bert’s illness. Lady Currey’s meaning was unmistakable. 
In some way, she evidently held Claudia responsible. 

Claudia played with her toast, but she made no reply. 
Gilbert was better, and his memory had returned to him, 
but he was again very irritable and rebellious. After the 
two excitements had come the reaction, and she sat facing 
the window, her face quite expressionless, weariness and 
boredom in her eyes and on her lips. Her excursion into 
the realm of romance was over. She did not regret her 
decision, but now life seemed stale and unprofitable, like 
the drab sea-shore when the turbulent waters have re- 
ceded. It seemed to her at the moment that she had 
come to an end of all things. Life stretched in a grey 
monotone before her. She was in a cage, and what re- 
lease could she hope for? Gilbert would go to Le Touquet 
and get better, and things would continue on just the 
same lines as before, only, unless her nature radically 
changed, she could never experiment again with the 
299 


300 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


modern solace of the dissatisfied married woman. A 
Rhoda Carnegie, a Circe might, but apparently for her 
it was impossible. As Jack had said, she would always 
see through the whole business. 

She came out of her reverie to discover Lady Currey 
looking at her questioningly with her shallow eyes. 

“I beg your pardon,” she said contritely. 

“I asked you if you really gave attention to his having 
good, nourishing food. I’ve always made a point of 
having the best English meat and fresh vegetables.” 

“I don’t think it’s a question of diet,” replied Claudia, 
with a faint smile, “and we can’t grow our vegetables on 
the balcony. Dr. Neeburg says it is overwork. Your 
husband once told me that hard work never yet hurt any 
man.” 

“Fancy his being locked up in a common police-cell! 
I shall never get over that. My poor dear Gilbert ! What 
his feelings must have been when he recovered himself ! 
It seems to me the police were greatly to blame in exceed- 
ing their duty, but my husband tells me we cannot take 

action against them Do you give Gilbert porridge for 

his breakfast? I strongly believe in porridge myself.” 

“You might talk to Dr. Neeburg,” suggested her 
daughter-in-law. Her only comfort was the great bowl 
of narcissi in the centre of the table and Billie’s warm, 
loving little body against her skirt. She was certain he 
looked up every now and then with sympathy in his soft 
eyes. 

“I don’t approve of a German doctor, even though he 
has been in England most of his life,” said Lady Currey 
primly. “I know all about German doctors and their 
cleverness, but is it the right kind of cleverness? I wish 
Gilbert would see dear old Doctor Green. He treated him 
as a baby. All German doctors are faddists. I daresay 
Dr. Green could have averted this trouble. He’s won- 
derful when I’ve got a sore throat, and his manner is so 


AN AMIABLE STUFFED ANIMAL 


301 


restful. He doesn’t approve of German doctors either. 
He says they experiment on you. That’s exactly what I 
think. . . . Don’t you think your laundry puts too much 
starch in the serviettes? Starch ruins good linen. I see 
there is a small hole already in the corner of this one. 
No, no German doctors for me, thank you. I should 
make ready to die if I fell in the hands of one.” 

Claudia knew that she ought to be able to laugh — 
inwardly — but somehow her sense of humour seemed to 
have deserted her. One cannot support life entirely on a 
sense of humour, though it helps one over many a dreary 
mile. How Pat would have enjoyed the conversation, 
thought Claudia. 

“Does this German say how long Gilbert ought to 
rest ? It’s dreadful to think of his work being at a stand- 
still.” 

“Some months, but it depends, of course, on the 
patient. He seems to have got another touch of influenza 
— I suppose it was the cold of the cells, and he never 
really got rid of it; but next Monday he will go to Le 
Touquet.” 

“I suppose Le Touquet is all right,” said Lady Currey, 
in a dissatisfied tone. “I think French places are often 
so enervating, and you can never be sure of the water in 
France. I must tell Gilbert always to drink mineral 
water. France is so dreadfully behind in the matter of 
hygiene. Look at a Frenchwoman’s pasty complexion.” 

“Le Touquet is above any kind of reproach,” Claudia 
reassured her, hailing the arrival of coffee as one who, 
lost in the bush, sees the first sign of a human habitation. 
“The air is excellent, and Gilbert always enjoys the golf 
there. He chose it himself out of several places. He 
hates sea-voyages, you know, or Dr. Neeburg wished him 
to go on one.” 

“Yes, I know. He inherits my constitution in that 
respect. Are these cups old Worcester? I have some 


302 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


very like them, but I do not care to have them used. 
You know they are very valuable? Servants are so 
careless. They broke a really exquisite piece of old 
Chelsea the other day. I cried, I positively cried, and had 
a headache all the rest of the day. I don’t know when I 
have been so upset, except” — hastily — “of course, when 
I heard the terrible news about poor Gilbert! I think 
I’ll go up and see how he feels now, and ask him if he 
won’t see Dr. Green.” 

Later in the day Mr. Littleton came in to see Claudia. 
He found her with Billie on her lap, a volume of Strind- 
berg’s plays in her hands. He took in at a glance her 
tired, languid aspect, though she greeted him cordially 
enough. There were but few people! she wanted to see 
that day, but Littleton was one of them. 

“Madame,” he said with mock seriousness, “Strindberg 
is not good reading for you to-day. Horribly clever, but 
much too morbid. His plays are interesting to those 
who study human nature, but they are not exhilarating.” 

“Morbid ! I don’t know. Because he presents men and 
women as complex, many-sided, vari-coloured egos, you 
call him morbid. Don’t talk like Jack.” 

He smiled and picked up the book, and commenced to 
read. “ 'Our souls, so eager for knowledge, cannot rest 
satisfied with seeing what happens, but must also learn 
how it comes to happen. What we want to see are just 
the wires, the machinery. We want to investigate the 
box with the false bottom, touch the magic ring in order 
to find the suture, and look into the cards to discover 
how they are marked.’ You can carry that spirit too 
far, you know. I guess you have too much time on your 
hands. How is your husband?” 

“Better. He goes to Le Touquet next week.” 

“Le Touquet ! Why, I’m going there for a few days ; 
partly because a French author I want to see is there, 
and won’t leave his golf to write letters, and partly be- 


AN AMIABLE STUFFED ANIMAL 303 


cause I want a little holiday. How delightful ! We shall 
meet there, then.” 

“Oh ! I am not going.” 

He was distinctly disappointed. “Is it permitted to 
ask why not? It’s delicious weather now. Can’t you 
smell the sea and the pines and the springy, sandy grass?” 

She could, and a sudden desire to get away from Lon- 
don caught hold of her. She would have to meet Frank 
if she kept her engagements, and that would be awkward. 
She was willing to be friends, to turn over the page, but 
she divined that he was too angry. It would be awkward. 

He saw the sudden light in her eyes, the quickening 
of interest, and urged her afresh. 

“We could make it international golf, you know, 
England versus America. And between the holes we 
could talk Strindberg if you liked. Not that you would 
want to, with a fresh breeze blowing in your face, and 
your club in your hand.” They both laughed. “No, I 
can’t see Strindberg on a golf-course. Do come. W^s 
your husband going alone? Surely that is not good 
for him?” 

“Colin Paton is going with him.” 

“Oh !” Littleton did some quick thinking. He 
had wondered once or twice if she were particularly in- 
terested in Colin, but as she had not thought of accom- 
panying them, he deduced that the answer was in the 
negative. “Then we should be a foursome on our own: 
Have you anything very special to keep you in London ?” 

“No, except poor Fay, you know. She has got to look 
forward to my going to her constantly.” 

“But,” said Charles Littleton gently, “she is likely to 
be ill for many, many months, is she not? Forgive me 
for attempting to persuade you to anything, but you 
know you are not looking quite your usual self. You 
are not the woman I met at the Rivingtons. I don’t know 
if it is fresh air you need, but fresh air always helps every 


304 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


trouble, don’t you think? One can always see everything 
more clearly in the country. You are much too analytical 
and introspective. Blow the mental cobwebs away at 
Le Touquet.” 

He felt practically sure she would come when he left, 
and expectation leapt high at the thought of the days with 
her. Her husband would be there, but he realized that 
he had no rival in her husband. He did not dread burnt- 
out fires, and Colin Paton would naturally pair with Gil- 
bert. He was not an imaginative man, he had never had 
any time to dream, and he had always stifled any tender 
shoots of romance ; but he longed to have her there with 
him, among the sweet-scented pines through which they 
would walk, on the fine stretches of grass and sand, play- 
ing the little white ball, by the sea-shore with its curling 
waves and long, long stretches of level, golden sand. Ro- 
mance had come to him late in life, but now he did not 
stifle it. He would stake his all on this throw ; he would 
make a fight for what he did not deserve to win. Perhaps 
Fate would be kind to him, perhaps she would forgive his 
early absorption in business, his blunt refusals of her in- 
vitations to enjoy life. He had rejected the possibilities 
of love before, now — now was there still a chance for 
him? If Claudia could be won — ah! the tall, spare 
American who walked along with alert, springy footsteps 
was not thinking of dollars or glory, only of the beauty 
of a woman’s heart and body which had swept him off his 
feet. His whole soul was invaded by her presence. She 
was his entire horizon. 

So it happened that on Monday they all travelled to- 
gether. Colin had approved heartily of her going, and 
as soon as she set foot on the Boulogne boat Claudia felt 
a little uplift that brightened her face and made it possible 
for her once again to take an interest in her fellow-crea- 
tures. Colin and Littleton were both good companions, 
and though Gilbert was rather morose — his humiliating 


AN AMIABLE STUFFED ANIMAL 


305 

experience had left a scar that would not heal — Claudia 
was happier than she had been for a long time. 

She knew that she was happier, and she wondered why. 
Nothing was changed. Then she resolutely put question- 
ing on one side. “I won’t think about myself or my 
stupid emotions,” she said vehemently to herself. “I’ll 
just be a brainless animal for awhile, at least” — truth- 
fully—' Til try.” 

She was saying this to herself when she noticed that 
Colin was regarding her. 

“Were your lips moving in silent prayer?” he said 
jokingly, “or was it some great poem in glory of the sea?” 

“Neither. I was taking myself to task. I was telling my- 
self not to be an idiot, or rather” — laughingly — “to be one.” 

“It’s rather involved. Is there any key?” 

“Yes, I’m the key. If you know me well ” She 

stopped and coloured, for she remembered when he had 
said he knew her better than she knew herself. She 
turned her head away as she added hastily, “But anyway, 
it’s not worth solving. Who was it that said you should 
never try to understand women, you should be content 
with loving them?” 

“Someone who wanted to appear smart,” answered 
Colin promptly. 

“Do you think you understand women ?” 

“Heaven forfend ! Is thy servant a grey-headed wizard 
that he should lay claim to such knowledge? Wouldst 
thou have me bear a burden beyond my years ? Besides, 
if I pretended that I did, you’d only slay me with great 
despatch and neatness. Do look at that elderly woman 
occupying four seats!” 

“Well, look at the man who has just put his seat in the 
middle of the gangway and looks daggers at everyone who 

falls over his chair! By the by, you know Patricia 

has announced her determination of coming over to Le 
Touquet for a few days next week.” She spoke care- 


3°6 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


lessly, but she watched the effect of her words upon him. 
She could see no change, however. He only nodded 
cheerily. 

“We shall be quite a merry party, shan’t we? She 
has announced her intention of turning ten complete 
somersaults on the first green!” 

“She’s a dear, isn’t she?” 

“Of the first water.” But there was no undue enthu- 
siasm in his tone. “And she’s very devoted to you.” 

“Is she? I don’t deserve it.” 

“Not in the least. I have been trying to talk her out 
of it. Quite unsuccessfully, I may add.” 

It was really very provoking. He would not be drawn. 
Did he deliberately refuse her his confidence? Were he 
and Pat keeping a secret? 

She tried again. 

“I suppose she’ll be getting married one of these days.” 

“Well, he said thoughtfully, “it is a fate that fre- 
quently overtakes charming women. The lady with the 
four seats has been obliged to relinquish one of her seats 
to another elderly female with a bird-cage. It takes an 
elderly lady to outwit another elderly lady.” 

“Pat don’t believe in marriage.” 

“We none of us believe in marriage. It’s a question 
of faith and hope, like religion. It isn’t an Athanasian 
Creed, with vehement damnatory clauses, which have no 
application to yourself.” 

“You can’t talk, you haven’t tried it,” retorted Claudia. 
“Then you think — someone — will convert Pat to the usual 
fate? You already see her in white satin and orange- 
blossom, and a noisy voice from Eden breathing hard 
over her?” The wind was causing her hair to wave 
wildly, and whipping her cheeks to a brilliant pink. Some 
of the sparkle had come back in her eyes at the contest, 
and the man at her side was more than aware of her good 
looks. “Two of us have already made disastrous mar- 


AN AMIABLE STUFFED ANIMAL 307 


riages. Heigh ho! for a third! Fm sure there’s no luck 
of the children of Circe !” 

She had never said plainly before to him that her 
marriage was a failure. Always they had played about 
the borderland of truth, each knowing that the other 
knew. To-day for some reason, she had spoken plainly. 

He was silent, leaning against the gunwale, looking 
down at the hurrying, foaming waters below. 

“Are you shocked at me for my lack of reticence?” 
she said rather bitterly. “Yes, you can’t joke about that. 
I wanted to make you serious. Oh, yes! you can make 
a joke now. Look, your old lady is not feeling well, and 
is hurriedly relinquishing the three seats. Why don’t 
you look? It’s quite funny, and you always take life 
with a smile.” 

But he never lifted his eyes from the foaming, greenish 
water. Only his hand, which gripped the gunwale tightly, 
showed any sign of emotion. 

“Don’t Perhaps when Gilbert is better ” 

“Oh, no! it’s quite hopeless. You can’t make a new 
fire with white ashes. Did you ever think we were suited 
to one another?” She was gazing out at sea. Every now 
and then a lurch of the boat sent her arm against his, 
and once a strand of her hair swept his cheek. 

He was a little time before he replied. “Claudia, you 
once said something like that before. You said I might 
have warned you. Was that fair? It hurt me. Suppose 
I had said to you, ‘I don’t think Gilbert can make you 
happy.’ What would you have thought of me? Think 
how happy and confident you were. And — can anyone 
interfere in such matters? Are they not questions we 
must decide for ourselves ? I — or anyone — would always 
be utterly helpless, whatever you chose to do.” 

She gave a sigh. “I know. I shouldn’t have believed 
you.” 

The next words seemed to slip out almost against his 


3°S 


CIRCE'S DAUGHTER 


will. “And you might have thought I was jealous of 
my friend." 

“Oh, no!" she exclaimed impulsively. “I should 
never have thought that." 

“I see," he replied, with a bitterness she had never 
before heard in his voice. “I was never a real man to 
you. I was and am only a literary abstraction, an amiable 
stuffed animal, suitable for friendship, a ” 

She lifted startled, amazed eyes to his, but at that 
instant Littleton's voice sounded the other side of her. 

“I need not ask you if you enjoy the sea, Mrs. Currey ? 
Isn’t it bully? I like it rough, don’t you?" 

Just then the spray caught them all, and for the next 
few minutes they were busy laughingly mopping their 
faces and coats. 

“I call that a playful smack in the eye for my patron- 
izing tone," said Littleton. “I believe Nature hates us 
most when we patronize her. She did us all in then. Say, 
Mrs. Currey, will your husband be able to do much 
golfing?" 

She looked inquiringly at Colin, for Neeburg had given 
him the final instructions. 

“In moderation, Mr. Littleton. He mustn’t get over- 
tired — Neeburg was very insistent on that — but a certain 
amount of golf and exercise will keep him from brooding, 
and make him healthily tired." 

Littleton nodded. “I once had a bad attack of nerves. 
My ! but I shall never forget it. I got so that I stuttered 
in my speech, and I used to fancy people were watching 
me. I couldn’t sleep and had all sorts of weird fancies. 
I could hear the telephone-bell ringing all night, and when 
I did get to sleep, I used to j^rnp up with a shout to 
answer it. They sent me for a long sea-voyage to Aus- 
tralia. I came back cured. But it was an awful time. 
One ought to be sympathetic with a man in that condition. 
Only one who has been through really understands." 


AN AMIABLE STUFFED ANIMAL 309 


After a few minutes Claudia left the two men and 
walked over to where Gilbert was seated in a chair, read- 
ing the Times . He did not suffer from mal de mer, but 
he always experienced a curious feeling in his head, as 
though someone had put a band round his forehead. 

“Gilbert, why don’t you enjoy the air and the sea?” 
she said gently. “Why do you worry your brain with 
the paper?’’ She noticed he was reading the law news. 

He did not look up at her, but finished reading a case 
before he replied. “I knew the view Morely would take 
of the affair. I told Roche so at the beginning. He’s 
the most bigoted old fool on the bench. What did you 
say? Well, the sea bores me. It’s just — sea!” 

“Talk to me. The trip is very short.” 

With evident reluctance he put down the paper. 

“Gilbert,” she said earnestly, “do give yourself every 
chance. Can’t you pretend to yourself that this a well- 
earned holiday, and that you are going to enjoy it thor- 
oughly? Put London and the Law Courts out of your 
mind.” 

He gave a half-sigh, half-grunt. “That’s like a woman. 
Women think you can detach yourself from your real 
interest in life, like you can take off an old overcoat. I 
must think of something. Claudia, how many papers did 
my — my accident get into?” 

“Only one or two unimportant ones. You needn’t 
worry about that, Gilbert.” 

He frowned at the blue sky overhead. “I suppose 

everybody was laughing about it It was that hot 

whisky that did it.” 

“Yes. Don’t think about it.” 

“A few weeks will set me up. I suppose I really did 
need a holiday. But I never thought I should have to 
give up like this. You’ve got the laugh on me, Claudia.” 

“I don’t want to laugh, Gilbert. I realize what this 
means to you and — Pm sorry.” 


3 io 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


He looked at her with his sombre, heavy-lidded eyes, 
that had once darkened with overmastering passion, 
that night of the dance. All the youthfulness had gone 
out of the face. He might have been a man of forty-five 
instead of thirty-five. Youth had fought unsuccessfully 
with a heaviness of the spirit that had always been there, 
but had greatly increased the last two years. She won- 
dered of what he was thinking as he looked at her. One 
could never guess with Gilbert. He had the typical 
barrister’s face, non-committal, secretive of his thoughts. 

Then he said abruptly, “Enjoy yourself at Le Touquet. 
I shan’t. It’s medicine, and I must take it. Just leave 
me alone and have a good time yourself. Is that Bou- 
logne? Thank goodness!” 


CHAPTER XX 


BACK TO "THE GAME" 

G ILBERT did not prove an easy patient to manage, 
because though he was still in need of treatment, 
being well had become a habit. He was impatient of any 
restraint, and sometimes almost rude to Colin, who took 
the chief share of the restraining. Neeburg had limited 
him to nine holes, morning and afternoon, which meant 
that a good portion of his day was unoccupied. 

And that which Claudia had foreseen came to pass. He 
had no hobby to amuse him. He hated to be alone with 
his own thoughts, and yet he was either impatient with 
other people’s conversation and ideas, or he was bored 
with the subjects that interested them, and did not interest 
him. He did not sleep well, and he had taken a dislike to 
books. Bridge and billiards he had always considered a 
waste of time, and the entertainments at the small Casino 
did not amuse him. He took no interest in the small 
happenings of life, which for other people pleasantly 
diversify the days with their light and shade. His day 
was one long fidget to get back into harness. 

Still, the bracing air did him good, and his nerves daily 
got steadier. Sometimes he almost looked his old self. 

One day, after they had been there for a week, it 
happened to be very wet, and golf for Gilbert was out of 
the question. He and Colin were sitting out on the 
3ii 


312 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


verandah of the Golf Hotel, smoking and talking, when 
Claudia came out to them. She seated herself a little 
distance away, with Le Petit Journal , which she looked at 
in a desultory holiday sort of way, as they went on 
talking. Gilbert was evidently replying to some remark 
of Colin’s. 

“It’s what you call 'tolerance’ that is ruining England. 
It’s a blessing for her that there are a few ‘intolerant’ 
people left. You know, Colin, you’ve got mixed up with 
a lot of cranks, all grinding their own little axes. For 
instance, I can’t think why you want to mess about with 
such questions as Child Labour. It won’t make you 
popular, very few people take an interest in it. Why 
don’t you leave such questions to faddists? I wonder 
that a man of your ability plays about with such small 
issues.” 

Claudia saw a fighting gleam in Colin’s eye, but he 
replied quietly enough. 

“We always did disagree on our definition of ‘small,’ 
you know, Gilbert. A small question does not become a 
big one because it becomes the popular one of the day.” 

Gilbert made a gesture of impatience. “Nonsense, you 
must accept the world’s verdict on these things, and let 
me tell you, as a lawyer, that the verdict of the people 
is pretty sound, in spite of any Ibsen paradoxes you may 
fling at me. If you like to paddle about in a backwater, 
no one can prevent you, but don’t pretend it’s the main 
stream, or rather don’t expect anyone to believe you. I 
think enough has been talked about Child Labour. Senti- 
mental twaddle ! The law has done all that is necessary.” 

“Have you ever gone closely into the question, Gil- 
bert ?” Colin took his cigarette-case out of his pocket and 
abstracted another cigarette. 

“Yes, as much as I want to. I once had a compensa- 
tion case, where a lot of sentiment was dragged in by 
the heels.” 


BACK TO “THE GAME’ 


3i3 


“Ah! you represented the employer, of course?” He 
threw the match over the verandah. 

“Well ? The parents of the child were willing it should 
work. The sentiment came in when it got injured.” 

“Exactly, that’s just what we complain of. Child 
labour demoralizes the parents. But, leaving the parents 
out of the quection,” his voice grew warmer, in spite of 
his evident effort to keep cool — “don’t you see that the 
interest of future generations of workers demands that 
children, instead of becoming ‘half-timers,’ shall have a 
chance to develop, to let their bodies grow into something 
strong and fine, so that — and this should appeal to you — 
England may hold her own against other younger, more 
vigorous nations. I say nothing about the joyless lives 
of the children who are old in mind as well as body before 
those of our class go to Eton or Harrow, but surely the 
future of the race interests you? You get more work out 
of a vigorous, able-bodied man or woman.” 

“Oh yes ! I’m interested, but I prefer to work for the 
present generation. I’ll do without a rain-washed, dirty 
statue that a crank occasionally puts a wreath on and 
no one else remembers.” 

“Gilbert!” exclaimed Claudia, unable to let the taunt 
pass. “How can you be such an arrant materialist?” 

“We live in a materialistic age, my dear,” said her 
husband coolly. “In a few years’ time ideals will be as 
dead as door-nails. Idealists are usually weak dreamers, 
who resent the driving force of others, and who try — in- 
effectually — to dam the current of their progress. I don’t 
mean that you are to be classed with these ineffectual, 
Colin, but you allow yourself to be carried away by their 
enthusiasms. Enthusiasm is a good servant, but a bad 
master. To do anything worth doing, you must have a 
judicial mind, and put nothing of yourself in the scale.” 

“All the great reformers of the world have been en- 
thusiasts,” cried Claudia impetuously. “The dry-as-dust, 


314 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


cold-blooded men and women have never achieved any- 
thing. I say, thank God for the enthusiasts of the world, 
who are not dismayed by columns of statistics !” 

Her eyes and Colin’s met, and his thanked her silently, 
but a little shake of the head told her not to trouble to 
argue, that it was only beating her head against a brick 
wall. 

“My dear Claudia, you are a woman and belong to the 
emotional, impressionable sex. But, for Heaven’s sake, 
don’t you join any of these crank movements,” he went 
on impatiently — “for if I am going into Parliament, I 
don’t want to be saddled with my wife’s partisanships. 
It’s quite enough to fight the cranks in the House, I don’t 
want any on my own hearthrug.” 

She was tempted to make a hot retort, but Colin’s look 
checked her. After all, it was useless, and she had deter- 
mined not to quarrel with him. 

“I shan’t be able to stick this much longer,” grumbled 
her husband, getting up and inspecting the leaden skies. 
“Rotten weather !” 

“It’s the first bad day we’ve had, old man,” replied 
his friend cheerfully. 

“And no newspapers yet I wasn’t cut out for a 

life of idleness. I’ll got in and write some letters.” 

He got up and left them on the verandah, and Claudia 
gave up the pretense of reading. 

“Colin,” she exclaimed vehemently, “how came you 
and he to be friends when you are so different? His 
views are too awful.” 

“There are a lot of people who think as he does,” re- 
turned Colin thoughtfully. “But it was sweet of you 
to take up the cudgels on my behalf. Those things are 
not easy to do in front of — a Gilbert.” 

She flushed a little. “I just had to say it. I was so 
entirely with you. I always am. And yet, he is my 
husband.” 


BACK TO “THE GAME 5 


3i5 


“You don't think me weak and ineffectual?” He looked 
out over the rain-bleared golf-course, at the dark row 
of pines in the distance. “You used to lay so much stress 
on strength, on achievement. You quite frightened me.” 

“Don’t!” she said quickly. “Sometimes one may mis- 
take hardness for strength. Don’t” — pitifully — “don’t 
rub it in, Colin.” Her eyes suddenly filled with 
tears. 

“Oh, my dear!” — the caress seemed to slip out invol- 
untarily — “I didn’t mean to do that And though I 

wanted you to say I wasn’t, I am weak — pitifully weak 

I want a woman’s good opinion, a woman’s approval. 

I want someone to believe in me, to urge me on ... . 
that’s weak, isnt’ it?” 

“Only according to Gilbert’s creed,” she said softly, 
“You and I have a different one.” 

He got up and paced the verandah. 

“It would be happier for you if you could adopt his 
creed — and you’re very young. You want happiness?” 

“Badly.” 

“I wish — I could see you happy. The Bible says, 'the 
prayer of the righteous man availeth much,’ but I can’t 
pray.” 

“I don’t believe you are any happier — although you 
seem so cheerful — than I am.” 

“No.” 

The rain softly murmured around them. They were 
the only occupants of the verandah. 

“We’re not very lucky, are we? ” She turned 

abruptly to him, her hands gripping the edge of the 
verandah, her eyes bright with a curious wildness. “Colin, 
I’m sometimes so frightened of the future. I’m twenty- 
four now. Shall I always go on being unhappy and dis- 
satisfied until I become a nasty, bitter, lonely old woman, 
jealous of every happy couple I meet, envious of everyone 
else’s happiness ? It’s a horrid picture, isn’t it ?” 


316 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


He did not say a word, but he watched her profile as 
she looked out at the rain. 

“Gilbert will grow more and more like his father, and 
he will become the right honorable member for Langton. 
He may rise to be Attorney-General. Perhaps he’ll get 
a seat in the Cabinet. I shall open Primrose League 
bazaars and be chilly to the wives of Labour members 
when I meet them. I shall go to innumerable long, stupid 
dinners and try and remember to be gracious to the right 
persons. I shall become the possessor of some wonderful 
china and perhaps flit about with a duster in a silk bag. 
And my heart — well — with a sudden gust of passion that 
left her face deathly white — “I hope it will be atrophied 
by that time.” 

They had neither of them noticed the approach of a 
motor, so that they were both startled to hear an English 
shout from the bottom of the steps. 

“Hallo ! Isn’t the water cold ?” 

It Was Pat, neat and workmanlike in her blue serge, a 
small hat rammed down over her yellow hair. She 
grinned up at their surprise. 

“Pat! We didn’t expect you until to-morrow.” 

“I know, but I suddenly got fed up with London. I 
hope I haven’t put the town band out by coming so soon, 
but I just had to come.” 

She came striding up the steps and gave Claudia a hug. 

“Bless you, my children. Paton, I shall be in tre- 
mendous form to-morrow. I feel it coming on. Directly 
I got on the boat I wanted to drive off from the head of 
the gangway, only it would be sure to have been a lost 
ball .... I lost five last week. I think they were winged 
angels masquerading as golf-balls. How’s Gilbert? Billie 
sends his forlorn love. He’s as mournful as a Chinese 
idol. Do' you know where I’m supposed to hang myself 
up ?” 

Claudia, who had arranged for her room on the mor- 


BACK TO “THE GAME’ 


317 


row, went ahead into the hotel, Colin and Pat following 
after. She could not help hearing a hasty whisper of, 
“Paton, I’ve got lots of things to tell you. Just had to 
see you. Everything is going to be all right, and I’m 
so happy.” 

So her suspicions were correct. Colin and Pat were in 
love with one another. Pat “just had to see him.” What 
was that but love? Only love can drive with such im- 
patience. 

“I hope it’s a pretty long bed,” she could hear Pat 
chattering. “I went to stay at an hotel once, and we took 
it in turns to rest, my top half and my lower half. I’d 
like to sleep all at once, if possible.” 

Colin laughed. He was always on very cheery terms 
with Patricia, and she with him. It was she, Claudia 
remembered, who had once so highly extolled Paton as a 
possible husband: At that time she had not appeared 
to have any penchant for him. But sometimes the knowl- 
edge of her love comes suddenly to a young girl. Per- 
haps it had come suddenly to Pat. And she would make 
him a very nice wife. She was loyal to the core, and she 
would believe in him. She would fight for him, if neces- 
sary, through thick and thin, the bigger the fight the 
more she would like it. She would never quite under- 
stand one side of him, perhaps, but maybe her steady 
cheeriness was what he needed. How often she had 
heard it said that like should not seek like in marriage. 
She remembered someone had said, “In love they who 
resemble, separate.” Pat was lucky, and if she felt a 
little twinge of jealousy — well,' it was the first symptoms 
of the soured old woman period she had been envisaging. 
She would presently look on all young couples in the same 
way. 

“So your sister has arrived,” she heard Mr. Littleton 
say, as she stood musing in the hall. “She hasn’t brought 
good weather with her.” 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


3i8 

“No,” returned Claudia mechanically, “but Pat doesn’t 
mind the weather.” 

“Well, I guess that befits an Amazon. She’s a splendid 
specimen of English womanhood.” 

Her sister nodded. Yes, she was; no wonder Colin 
admired her. 

“A little too splendid for my taste,” smiled Littleton. 
“Who was it laid down the law that a woman should be 
just as high as the shoulder of the man she loves?” He 
looked at the dark, glossy head just on the level of his 
own shoulder, but she did not notice it. She was trying 
to adjust her ideas: “I reckon he was a cosy man, who 
ever he was.” 

He wondered what had caused that curiously blank 
look on her face, a sort of half stunned surprise. 

Just then Pat and Colin came laughing into the hall, 
she having, with her characteristic quickness, found and 
donned a tweed rain-proof coat. 

“Claud, we’re going for a tramp. Come with us? 
It’s no good minding the wet. You look as if you’ve been 
in all day.” 

Her sister pulled herself together and replied lightly, 

“I’m sure, from your tone, it’s an unbecoming look, but 
I refuse to let the rain wash it off. I hate walking in 
the rain.” 

“It’s nearly left off,” said Paton, glancing out of the 
door, “the clouds are breaking.” 

“I tell you I don’t want to go Run away, young 

people !” 

Littleton noticed the edge to her tone, noticed it be- 
cause he loved her and, by now, had grown sensitive to 
its many inflections. Because he loved her, he tried to 
understand her, to respond to her moods, to fall in with 
her humours. He adored her quick changes, sometimes 
half a dozen in the space of ten minutes; the melodies 
in her voice, sometimes tender, sometimes firm, occasion- 


BACK TO “THE GAME” 


3i9 


ally gay and still girlish. He was willing to do anything 
to make her happy, and he had seen very clearly the rift 
in the lute, the rift that had been inevitable. Could he 
hope to win her love? She had given him nothing that 
could be considered encouragment, although she was 
always friendly and ready to talk to him. She no longer 
loved her husband, and it was not possible that such a 
woman could exist for long without some man in her 
life. Why not 

Then he saw the expression on her face. She had for- 
gotten he was standing there. She was absorbed in her 
thoughts, but her eyes were fixed on the couple going 
down the path. Pat was talking eagerly, and she had 
just slipped her hand confidentially within Colin’s arm to 
emphasize some point. 

Love gives even the most stupid of men extraordinary 
powers of intuition where the woman he loves is con- 
cerned. In a flash he knew that his own suit was hope- 
less and the reason. 

His fair skin had grown very grey as he spoke to her, 
and the light in his eyes was suddenly quenched. 

“Mrs. Currey, this is my last day here, you know. Too 
bad it’s wet, isn’t it? We might have gone over the 
links once again together.” 

The words effectually roused her. “Your last day 
here ? I thought you were going to stay on a few more 
days ? Oh, I’m sorry ! But we shall meet when I come 
back to town, n’est-ce pas?” 

“I’m afraid not,” he said regretfully. “I — I shall prob- 
ably be sailing for New York next week. The firm has 
been calling for me for some time. ‘Home, sweet Home,’ 
you know, and the American eagle !” 

“Why, that’s too bad.” Her tone was unaffectedly 
regretful and sincere. Perhaps, later on, he would feel 
it a slight consolation that he had won through to her 
friendship, but at present it was caustic on the wound. 


320 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


“I shall miss you. I suppose it’s 'the game’ once more ? 
We women are hopelessly out of it!” 

He shook his head. "There is only ‘the game’ left to 
me, and now — it doesn’t interest me very much. Life 
has a queer way of giving you backhanders occasionally, 
hasn’t it? Mrs. Currey, you’ve taught me there are finer 
things, more worth striving for, than mere commercial 
gain. Oh, it will fill up the time quite nicely, and I shall 
still get some thrills out of doing the other fellow.” They 
had wandered out on the verandah again. "See here, 
I don’t know how a woman takes these things. I don’t 
know whether she likes a man to tell her he loves her, 
or would rather he went away with his tongue held be- 
tween his teeth. But I feel I should like to tell you that 
I love you .... I would have done anything to win 
and keep your love, if there had been any hope for me. 

At one time I had a crazy dream you might, perhaps, 

trust yourself to me and make another start with me on 
the other side. I know you’re brave enough to make a 
fight for your happiness, and not begrudge paying a price 
for it. You’re not the kind of woman to be frightened 
by a few law-court bogys.... No, you need not look 
so sorry. It’s my own fault. I walked clean into it. I 
guess I gave the best years of my life to the rottenest 
game out. Well, that game’s all that is left me. I’ve got 
to go on playing, whether I want to or not.” 

"But I am sorry I like you so much. I almost 

wish But I think something has happened to my 

heart.... I can’t feel it. I feel sort of numbed. I 
don’t even seem to believe in love any longer. I wish I 
could fall in love. I think it would put some life in me. 
I used to laugh at a woman who said when she wasn’t 
in love she was only half alive. But there’s something 
in it. Degrading admission, isn’t it?” 

He looked at her with a curious expression — half won- 
derment, half tenderness. 


BACK TO 'THE GAME’ 


3 21 


“Then you don’t know!” he exclaimed. 

“Know what?” The figures of Colin and Pat were 
rapidly becoming miniatures in the distance. 

“Never mind. Only when you do know — remember 
how we stood here—and that I knew.” 


CHAPTER XXI 


THE MEANING OF LIFE 

T HE boy treaded his way among the tables, until he 
came to where the Currey party sat. 

“Madame, s’il vous plait, on vous demande an telephone 
de I’Angleterre.” 

“Moi?” ejaculated Claudia, in surprise. 

“Mais oui, Madame.” 

Claudia rose and hurried to the telephone, hardly hav- 
ing time to wonder who it could be. Then she heard 
Jack's voice on the other end. 

“Claudia, is that you? Oh, for God’s sake, old girl, 
come back. I have blurted out the truth to Fay. She 
cornered me, and I confessed to her there wasn’t any 
chance. . . . It’s dreadful. . . .she wants you. . . .we can’t 
do anything with her. If you don’t come, I shall 
blow my brains out. I can’t stand it. Pat’s there, isn’t 
she? You can come, can’t you?” 

Claudia thought rapidly. “Yes, I’ll come, Jack. By 
to-night’s boat. All right, you meet me at Charing Cross.” 
322 


THE MEANING OF LIFE 


323 


She heard a sort of sob of relief from the other end, 
and he commenced to blab broken words of gratitude, but 
she cut him short. “No good talking on the telephone, 

old boy. It was rather cruel of you you shouldn’t 

have let her corner you. Tell her I’m coming.” 

She went back to the luncheon-table, but her appetite 
for lunch was gone. 

She was half afraid Gilbert would make some objection 
to her going, but except by a shrug of his shoulders and 
the raising of his thick eyebrows, he put no obstacles in 
her way. 

“Oh! poor little kid!” ejaculated Pat, her high spirits 
momentarily sobered. “Fancy knowing that there is no 
hope. Ugh! it must be like those torture-chambers of 
old, when the victims watched the walls gradually close 
in on them. I hope I shall die quickly and suddenly 
when my time comes.” 

“And yet there must be thousands at this very minute, 
as we sit here, who are knowingly being enclosed by 
those walls. I suppose we humans, on the whole, are a 
poor lot, and yet sometimes I am struck with amazement 
at the courage of men and women,” said Colin thought- 
fully. “When I pass through the crowded suburbs, I 
marvel at the amount of quiet, unnoticed heroism those 
brick walls must contain. But Fay — You have a diffi- 
cult task before you, Claudia. You can’t travel alone. 
I will take you back to London.” 

Claudia was longing to accept the offer, but she shook 
her head. “Oh, no ! thank you, Colin. You needn’t cod- 
dle me. Pat came over alone.” 

“Yes ; but she came in the day-time, and you are trav- 
elling at night. Can’t be done, madam. Pat will look 
after our patient.” 

“I wish you wouldn’t fuss over me,” said Gilbert testily. 
“Of course I am glad of your company, but I don’t need 
any kind of looking after. I’m not a hysterical, nervy 


3 2 4 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


woman. A man who is taking a rest isn’t a patient of 
anyone’s.” 

‘‘Gilbert, don’t be grumpy,” said Pat, who was never 
in the least overawed by Gilbert. “All men want looking 
after. If you are rude, I shall follow you round the links 
with a tin of Brand’s Essence and a spoon.” 

Colin’s presence on the journey was a great comfort, 
for he was quietly thoughtful without being fussy, and 
she did not feel under any necessity to talk to him, unless 
she had something to say. But she was pleasantly con- 
scious of his sympathy with her miserable errand. He 
took her to the door of the flat and left her. 

Claudia was startled when she saw her brother. She 
had never believed it possible that anyone could go to 
pieces so badly in such a short time. His young, unlined 
face was haggard, his eyes were sunken and dull. 

“Claudia, if you hadn’t come, I should have put an end to 
myself. I can’t stand seeing her suffer so. I wish I hadn’t 
told her, but she’s too cute for me. She always was.” 

“How did you come to blurt it out?” 

“Why, we were sitting quietly together, and I was 
teaching her double-dummy, when she said, ‘Jack, isn’t 
it too bad, I shall never get better?’ — quite quietly — just 
like I say it, and of course I — well, I gave the show away. 
She’d been suspicious for a long time, it seems. She re- 
members the case of a man in her profession that got hurt 
in the same way years ago. She knows how miserably 
he died a year afterwards She’d never said any- 

thing about it before. Must have been thinking it out. 
She raved it all out at me.” He shivered. “I shall never 
get over this, Claudia.” 

She was silent, as she took off her gloves. 

“She cries and cries, and then suddenly she screams 

in abject fright I keep on hearing those screams. I 

can’t sleep for them. Oh, God ! it’s too awful.” 

The nurse had quietly entered. “I’m so glad you have 


THE MEANING OF LIFE 


325 


come, Mrs. Currey. You always had such an influence 
over her. Will you come in? She’s been listening for 
your arrival.” 

It was something resembling a very young child that 
threw itself with cries and sobs into her arms, when she 
went to the bedside. Claudia knelt down and held her 
tightly and silently to her breast. What words could she 
use to the poor, frightened soul, that did not sound puerile 
and meaningless? Even if she had herself believed in 
the orthodox Heaven, Fay was too fond of this world to 
have found any comfort in the visionary prospect. If 
only the curtain had killed her outright on that fatal 
night! That moment of surprise would have been her 
only pang, and now 

“I don’t want to die,” sobbed Fay. ‘Tm young. I’m 
only twenty-two. It’s wicked, it’s wicked .... I won’t 
be resigned. Nurse says I ought to be. But she isn’t 
going to die.” 

“Fay, dear, I know it’s terribly hard I shan’t ask 

you to be resigned. But will you listen to me for a few 
minutes ?” 

“Yes, I will — if you don’t want me to be resigned. 
Young people can’t be resigned, can they?” 

“No, but they can fight. Fay, have I ever told you 
how much I admire you for the way you’ve risen in your 
profession?” The sobbing grew quieter. “I’ve never 
had to do anything for my living, and I don’t suppose I 
can imagine one tenth part of the difficulty with which 
people do earn their living— the competition, the horrid 
spectres which people of my class never see, the fear of 
breaking down, of not having enough at the end of the 
week to pay the rent, to find food and clothing. You 
were earning a splendid salary when — the accident hap- 
pened, but you didn’t always, did you?” 

“Not much. The first few years after mother died I 
had precious little, an engagement here and there, and a 


326 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


good many times I didn’t know where the tin was com- 
ing from to pay the landlady.” 

“I know. I guessed all that, because very few people 
'arrive’ without making a big fight. I’m sure you made 
a splendid fight. You hung on to the managers and 
agents till they gave you engagements, and you set your 
teeth together and said to yourself, T won’t be done,’ 
didn’t you ?” 

“Yes, but how did you know?” She lifted the dis- 
torted, tear-stained face wonderingly. 

“You were quite a child when you made that fight, at 
an age when I was still in the schoolroom. And you 
fought fairly, and made lots o’f friends. Look at the 
crowds of letters you get, asking how you are. Fay, go 
on fighting. Don’t give in now.” 

There was complete silence. The dark head was mo- 
tionless. Claudia knew she was taking in the idea, for 
whenever Fay wanted to reason with herself, she always 
thought in silence. She always took a special interval 
from life to do her thinking. 

“But what am I to fight for ?” she said at length. 

“To keep your own respect and the respect and admira- 
tion of all who know you. Poor Jack loves you very 
much in his way, and he is distracted. Help to steady 
him, Fay. He is beginning to look at life more seri- 
ously. He admires you immensely as an artist, make him 
admire you as a woman . You told me once that you 
didn’t want to do him any harm by marrying him. You 
can do him a great deal of good.” 

“Poor old Jumbo! I scared him out of his life.” She 
gave a ghost of her gay smile. “I knew I’d get it out of 
him. No one else would tell me.” 

“He’s known all the time,” went on Claudia, stroking 
her hair, as she would have a child’s. “It’s been a ter- 
rible burden, Fay. You can see from his face how he 
has been brooding over it. Jack’s never had to bear any 


THE MEANING OF LIFE 


327 


kind of trouble in his life before. The world has been 
all rose-leaves for him. I think he’s been putting up a 
bit of a fight, too, because he hates trouble and illness, 
and all the uncomfortable things of life. He’s come pretty 
regularly to see you, hasn’t he ?” 

“Yes, he has. I see what you’re driving at. But why 
should I have to die ? I swear to God I never did no one 
no harm that I know of. There was a chap once I was 
awful fond of, and him of me. We used to keep on meet- 
ing on the Stoll tour. One week his wife came along. 
She was a silly, soppy piece of goods ; he liked a bit of a 
devil, like me, but she was dead stuck on him, and there 
was a baby coming. I sent him back to her, straight, I 
did. I wouldn’t have no truck with him. He sent me 
an awful nice letter when I got hurt. He’ll be sorry; 
when — when he hears.” 

“I’m sure he will.” 

Fay was silent again, her blue eyes fixed on an absurd 
Teddy Bear on the chest of drawers. Then she said with 
a queer jumble of ideas that left Claudia speechless: 

“I shan’t be able to do that American tour next year, 
and I shall never have a baby. Some people think kids 
are a nuisance, but I’d like to have had one. Babies are 
awful cute, aren’t they? Mabel Floyd’s got a kid of 
four years old, and she does all her mother’s songs. Makes 
you die with laughing. You should see her do the Bond 
Street strut, with her mother’s monocle. She’ll make a 
hit on the halls one of these days. Got it in her, you know, 
same as I had.” She looked at a framed photograph 
which hung on one of the walls. “Mother died when 
she was thirty-two, but that was because she got soaking 
wet one night, going to the theatre. But she didn’t mind 
dying much. I remember that. She was dead tired, you 
know. My father took his hook when I was four years 
old, and he had knocked all the life out of her. I can 
remember her saying, Tf it wasn’t for you, I’d be glad to 


328 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


take a rest, Fay.’ But I don’t feel like that. I never 
allowed any man to make my life a misery. If there was 
any misery going about, the men got it. I wasn’t taking 
any. Take my tip, my dear, don’t you let ’em squeeze 
everything out of you. Mother taught me that lesson. 
She had a thin time, poor thing.” Suddenly she com- 
menced to cry again, but gently. “I’ve heard people say 
that those that are dead can look down on us. Do you 
think mother can see me now ?” 

“Perhaps, Fay. We know very little about the spir- 
itual world.” 

After a minute Fay took her head off Claudia’s shoul- 
der, and pushed her away a little with one of her small, 
babyish bands. Her blue eyes, still wet, searched her face 
with such acuteness that Claudia was glad she had noth- 
ing to hide any longer. 

“Claudia, did you think all this out — about the fighting 
— as you came to see me ? Did you make it all up ?” 

Claudia shook her head, and her eyes were dark with 
her own thoughts as she replied: 

“No, Fay. It wasn’t thought out at all. I’ll tell you 
the truth. I hadn’t the least idea what I could say to 
you. I kept on asking myself, 'What shall I say? What 
shall I say?’ Then suddenly, as I came into your room 
and saw you crying among the pillows, I knew what life 
must mean for you, for me, for Jack, for everybody. A 
sudden light seemed to come to me. An answer came to 
some questions I have lately been putting to myself. I 
realized that it doesn’t matter whether you win or lose, 
whether you are happy or unhappy, as long as you keep 
on fighting. I don’t understand life any more than you 
do, dear. Sometimes it seems a pretty dreary business. 
I’m hopelessly at sea. But — I see now — one must go on 
swimming. You mustn’t just let your arms fall to your 
side and sink. Perhaps, if you keep on swimming, a boat 
may pick you up, or you may find an unsuspected island, 


THE MEANING OF LIFE 


329 


and even if you don’t get rescued, I think one must die 
— swimming.” 

Fay’s eyes opened widely, and her arms stole again 
round her sister-in-law’s neck. 

“How sad your voice sounds,” she whispered. “Are 
you having a bad time? Aren’t you happy, either?” 

Her sister-in-law’s voice was a little unsteady as she 
said, in a low voice, “Fay, shall I tell you a secret? Can 
you keep one ?” 

“Honour bright. May I be ” 

“Listen, then.... No, I’m not happy I haven’t 

found anything that I wanted in life. It’s all makeshifts. 
I’m very restless, very dissatisfied, and just at the moment 
I don’t find life worth living. Only yesterday I was talk- 
ing like a beastly coward. I was telling a friend that I 
was frightened of the future, that I could see only blank, 
empty, joyless days, and that I was going to develop into 
a nasty, soured, cold-hearted woman. Now I see how 
disgusting it was of me to say things like that, especially 
when I was making him unhappy too. I know I ought 
to brace up my muscles, and start swimming — like you. 
I don’t feel like it, any more than you do.... You’ll 
keep my secret, won’t you, Fay, and when I get tired, I’ll 
come to you and do a howl, and when you get tired you 
shall do the howling. And then we’ll make another effort 
and go on swimming again. We’ll help one another, won’t 
we? Somehow, I fancy the strong people of this world 
are not those who always achieve great things, but those 
who keep on fighting, who will not be downed by circum- 
stances.” 

Fay kissed her passionately. “I love you. F3 do any- 
thing for you. And if I can help you — I didn’t know you 
had any troubles — I should be so proud of myself. I’ve 
always looked upon you as someone who didn’t want any 
help, who always found it easy to do”— vaguely— “the 
right thing.” 


330 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


“No ! No !” cried Claudia, thinking of the humiliating 
scene in the studio, “I don’t find it easy at all. I find 
everything horribly difficult and confusing. ... I haven’t 
even got any fixed principles now. I hardly know what 
I believe or disbelieve. Sometimes I think I am only 
an artist, a pagan, merely craving for the beautiful, the 
perfect; sometimes I feel there is more in life and love 

than that there must be, there must be the whole 

fabric of life could not have been built upon such an 
insecure foundation. Passion is a big factor in life, 
but there must be a bigger.” 

She was talking to herself now, talking out her own 
doubts, but Fay lay perfectly still, listening to the voice 
that she loved, and comprehending only that this woman 
she had always thought so favoured, so lucky, so above 
the storms that beset her own course, was in trouble, and 
that it eased her mind to talk to her — The Girlie Girl 
of the music-halls. She, Fay, had been entrusted with 
her secert, and her heart swelled with a pride that made 
her for a few minutes forget her own tragedy. “Dead 
common,” she called herself, she was Claudia’s confidante. 
If Claudia wanted her to keep on fighting — well, it must 
be done, somehow or other. 

“Life can’t be a joke of the gods,” went on Claudia. 
“It’s the fashion nowadays to pretend that it is — but it 
can’t be. One can’t simply give way to every tempta- 
tion with the excuse that one is unhappy, that life has 
cheated you. If nobody wants you to be loyal to them, 
you must be loyal to yourself. Oh ! how I wish I under- 
stood things better.” 

There was a click of the door-handle and the nurse 
came in. 

“Mrs. Currey, the cook has got some soup and cold 
chicken for you in the dining-room. You must be tired 
after travelling. Won’t you take a little ?” 

“Yes,” said Fay, rubbing her fists in her eyes, “she 


THE MEANING OF LIFE 


33i 


must. She's a duck to come so quickly. Nurse, I’m 
going to be good after this ; at least, I’m going to make 
a try. It isn’t much in my line, but I’m not so old I 

can’t learn a new song and dance Claudia, send old 

Jumbo to me.” 

At that instant “old Jumbo” put his head dubiously 
round the door. He was the weakest of husbands and 
men, but helped by Colin’s lecture, he had almost over- 
come his repugnance to a sick-room. The last two days 
had frightened him out of his very limited wits. He had 
not heard Fay sobbing for the last quarter of an hour. 
Had Claudia got her asleep or — — 

“Hallo, Jumbo,” called out Fay. “Come over here 
and give me a kiss.” 

His stupid, handsome face brightened, and some of the 
scared look disappeared from the eyes. 

“Cheer oh, Fay, old girl!” he said huskily. “I’m glad 
you’re better.” 

Claudia and the nurse left the strange married couple 
together. 

****** 

At that same moment Colin was tearing open a tele- 
gram which his man said had arrived a couple of hours 
previously. It was from Pat at Le Touquet, and Colin 
quickly mastered the disquieting contents. 

“Come back quickly and bring Neeburg if possible. 
Gilbert has had a seizure. Would play eighteen holes. 
Tried to stop him. Don't alarm Claudia. No immediate 
danger ” 


CHAPTER XXII 

A SICK MAN'S FANCY 


F ROM the day that Gilbert was brought back to 
England, some weeks later, Claudia’s life became 
one of deadly rustic monotony. Neeburg had not been 
surprised at the seizure. Cardiac trouble not infrequently 
followed on neglected influenza, he said, and combined 
with his nervous breakdown was, though not actually 
dangerous to his life, serious enough to make, for a time, 
a complete invalid of him. He was kept lying in his bed 
until he was well enough to be moved from Le Touquet, 
and then, in answer to his mother’s entreaties — she still 
seemed vaguely to hold Claudia responsible — he went 
down to his old home at Wynnstay. 

It was out of the question for him to continue living in 
London for some time to come, and Neeburg approved of 
the air of Wynnstay, which was pure and bracing. It was 
situated on the Sussex Downs, and from the topmost win- 
dows a glittering streak, which was the sea in the dis- 
tance, could be glimpsed. 

Life had not been any too cheery during those last 
weeks at Le Touquet, but at Wynnstay Claudia felt as 
though she were in prison. 

It was his home, and Claudia was made to feel that 
though the wife of the sick man, she was an outsider. 
Gilbert’s moroseness had increased, and rank bitterness 
was in his heart. Sometimes Claudia fancied that he 
332 


A SICK MAN’S FANCY 


333 


looked at her with furious envy in his eyes as she came 
with her springy steps across the lawn to where he was 
stretched out under a big tree. He did not wish to see 
any of their friends — was it the same reason, envy of their 
health? — so that very few people came to the house. 
Sometimes Lady Currey made it plain that instead of 
tramping along the country lanes, which was her one 
solace — there were no golf-links near — Claudia ought to 
appear in the sedate, sunless drawing-room with its cabi- 
nets of valuable china, and make small talk for the wife 
of the vicar and the sister of the curate, and listen to 
genteel opinions on a variety of subjects — no one could 
say even the biggest were shirked — of which the expon- 
ents knew less than nothing. 

Sometimes Claudia felt she was shriveling into a polite, 
well-bred mummy. Gilbert expected her to write all his 
letters for him — he still kept in touch with his office — 
so that he resented her wishing to go up to town even for 
the day. She knew it was unreasonable, but after a while 
she ceased to care very much. 

Lady Currey had always disliked Patricia, whom pri- 
vately she characterized as “a loud, indecently large 
hoyden/’ and she made this so plain that Claudia could 
not urge Pat to come down to visit her. Indeed, with 
the Currey family she had no rights at all, either to per- 
sonal friends or opinions. Any views which she was 
sometimes exasperated into expressing were generally 
received in chilly silence. 

Sick people are notoriously capricious in their likes and 
dislikes, and Gilbert seemed to have taken a dislike to 
Colin. They had been together quite amiably at Le 
Touquet, but once at Wynnstay, Gilbert never suggested 
that he should come down, and once, when Colin motored 
down, received him in such an indifferent manner that 
no one could have misunderstood. Then, at the begin- 
ning of July Colin had gone up to Lancashire to pursue 


334 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


some investigations on the Child Labour problem for Sir 
Michael Carton, and since then Claudia had only had let- 
ters from him. The letters were always charming, unob- 
trusively encouraging and subtly sympathetic, telling her 
something of his work and discussing the books in the 
Currey library, which helped to while away her time, but 
she missed him. She wondered why he and Pat did not 
announce their engagement, and therefore she was not 
in the least surprised when she got the following letter 
from Pat one morning in August: 

“I must see you, old girl, so I’m coming down for the 
week-end, and, like the improper female your mother-in- 
law thinks me (Oh! what would she think of a really 
improper female? But there, I suppose really improper 
females can’t afford to behave improperly, they have to 
prune and prism), I have taken rooms at the Three Com- 
passes Inn in the village. They’ve got a ducky room — 
it looks out on the duck-pond and they will quack me a 
matutinal lay — which I investigated last time I came 
down to see you for the day. Socky shall chase the ducks, 
and I’ll eat any he kills, or send them, with his compli- 
ments, to Lady Currey. But I must see you. I’ve been 
keeping a secret from you for some time, and I’m nearly 
dead of spontaneous combustion. Perhaps it’s too late 
and you’ll only find a coat and skirt — the other lingerie 
oddments would, I’m sure, be combusted, too — when you 
meet the 1.15 train. It’s a great , great secret, but every- 
thing is settled now. Colin will come down for the day 
on Sunday and help to eat one of the ducks. Now curi- 
osity shall smoulder in thee ! 

“Have you heard that Frank Hamilton has married a 
study in yellow? — yellow in her pockets and yellow in 
her face — called Maria Jacobs, and she has taken a house 
in Belgrave Square ? Rhoda, who knows all things inde- 
cent, says he made her settle a large sum of money on 


A SICK MAN’S FANCY 


335 


him and then announced his intention of travelling in the 
East — without her. She herself — Rhoda, I mean — is 
very annoyed. With great difficulty she got hold of a 
new man — vastly rich — who met her husband and became 
interested in his plays. He is putting up the money for 
a show in the autumn, and Rhoda hasn’t got a look-in. 
Funny world, isn’t it? 

“Wave a Union Jack on the platform on Saturday, and 
I will fall out on top of Socky. 

“Thine, 

“Pat” 

Lady Currey did not like letters to be read at break- 
fast — she insisted that Claudia should have the meal 
downstairs — so she had had to keep it until she could 
stroll forth in the garden. Well, Pat’s secret wasn’t such 
a great secret, after all. Claudia smiled as she wondered 
why it is that couples in love never imagine that anyone 
else notices! She wished Pat every happiness, every 
happiness 

She broke off a fragrant red rose and buried her face 
in it. It filled her nostrils with the sweetness and fra- 
grance of life. It meant beauty, youth, happiness ! Those 
things were for Pat, not for her. Then the rose recalled 
her last meeting with Frank and the little dinner-table. 
He was not finding youth and beauty with Maria Jacobs, 
he was finding what apparently he had always wanted — 
money. Well, he had made no wound in her heart, it had 
been mere physical attraction. 

Then she heard Lady Currey speaking. “I think it is 
very dangerous to inhale the perfume of flowers so near 
one’s nose. I read in a book once that it may affect one’s 
brain. Besides, there are often earwigs and things.” 

Claudia held out the rich, red bud. “Isn’t it beautiful ? 
Would you like me to fill that empty rose-bowl for you ?” 

“John does not like the smell of flowers in the house. 


336 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


I always have to see that there are scentless ones on the 
table, and really’’ — plaintively — “it is quite difficult.” 

Claudia looked at her. She was extraordinarily well 
preserved, even in the bright morning light. There were 
no lines to tell her age or mark character. But it was not 
a face that invited confidence, that would attract a child 
or make a precious miniature in any man’s heart. 

“And, of course, you always consider his wishes in 
every way, even small ones?” 

Lady Currey looked at the red rose laid lovingly — 
fearless of earwigs — against the soft, creamy cheek. The 
months spent in the country had, from a physical point 
of view, been greatly to Claudia’s advantage. Forced to 
go to bed early and roam the country lanes and fields, 
she looked the picture of health and strength. The face 
was now a little sad in repose, too thoughtful for her age, 
the lips had a faint droop, she did not laugh so readily 
and so gaily as before she was married ; but no one could 
look at her and not admire her glowing beauty, her lis- 
some, finely-moulded body instinct with vitality and mag- 
netism. As she stood on the lawn in her simple white 
linen frock with a big black velvet bow at her throat, she 
made Lady Currey look like an expressionless china doll. 

“Women were meant to study their husband’s wishes. 
I know, of course, that modern women like yourself no 
longer practise that creed — a creed, I may add, laid down 
in the Bible. I am told that women make a great point 
of being independent. But have they gained man’s re- 
spect by it? I ask you that. How do men speak of 
women nowadays? But lightly, I fear.” 

“Did men ever respect women very much?” said 
Claudia gently, tucking the rose into her white leather 
belt. “If men really respected women, would it be neces- 
sary either loudly to demand independence or for them 
to study men’s wishes? Women have been in subjection 
for ages — not satisfactory; it is now freedom and in- 


A SICK MAN’S FANCY 


337 


dependence — not satisfactory. Perhaps the third phase 
will be happier for both .... Colin Paton is coming 
down for the day on Sunday. I suppose Gilbert would 
like to see him ?” 

Claudia could not help noticing that Lady Currey 
looked at her rather sharply. ‘‘Did you ask him down ?” 

“No. As a matter of fact my sister is staying in the 
village for the week-end, and he is coming down — for 
her.” 

Lady Currey’s mouth dropped open a little and she 
stopped snipping at the roses. 

“Oh! is he? Then he doesn’t ? That will make 

a difference. Gilbert will be certain to want to see him.” 

Claudia’s curiosity was aroused. Lady Currey did not 
often cut her sentences. 

‘“That will make a difference’ why do you say 

that? What will make a difference?” 

“You mean me to deduce that he is — er — interested in 
your sister? Yes, quite so. Of course, when people are 
ill they have curious ideas. I never believed it possible 
myself. His mother is a good woman, I believe, though 
she is not High Church, and I have always thought highly 
of Colin Paton. Of course, as John says, it is a thousand 
pities that he has got drawn into the net of these mad 
Socialists, and if I were his mother ” 

“What fancy has Gilbert got into his head?” inter- 
rupted Claudia, looking over to the other side of the lawn, 
where her husband was reading the newspaper. He was 
now much better, and could walk half a mile or so. 

“Oh, nothing much, only — he fancied — that you saw 
too much of Colin Paton. He — he imagined Mr. Paton 
was in love with you, but I was sure he had too much 
respect for himself to fall in love with a married woman.” 

Claudia stared at the prim little face for a moment, and 
then she commenced laughing. Gilbert jealous ! Why, 
he had never troubled a scrap about Frank Hamilton, 


33§ 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


he had never noticed Charles Littleton's devotion, nor any 
of the other men who were always making love to her. 
He had chosen to be jealous of the one man — almost the 
only one — who had never whispered amorously in her ear. 
It was too ludicrous ! Yes, a sick man’s fancies are odd. 

“Poor Gilbert !” sighed Lady Currey. “But he is much 
better now. Dr. Neeburg — I wish he had been an Eng- 
lishman — said last week that he was doing splendidly, 
and it is only a question of time. We shall soon have 
dear Gilbert restored to health. By the by, what is this 
rumour I hear that Lynch House at Rockingham has been 
taken by your brother?” 

Rockingham was some four miles away across the 
downs, and Lynch House was a big, rambling old house, 
with a huge, neglected garden. It had been empty for 
some years. 

“Yes, it is true. Jack has rented it for a time, and 
my sister-in-law is being moved down for the rest of the 
summer.” 

Lady Currey looked her strong disapproval. “What 
can a — a paralysed woman and your brother want with 
such a big house ? Why, it has quantities of bedrooms ! 
Surely, most unsuitable/’ 

“Fay has a little scheme in her head,” returned Claudia 
quietly. “She wanted to be near me, that’s why she came 
to Rockingham, and she wants a big house for her 
scheme.” 

“Is she going to turn it into an hotel ?” said her mother- 
in-law sharply, looking her dislike of any scheme The 
Girlie Girl might have. 

“Yes, a first-class hotel, where the guests have no bills 
to pay. She’s got the idea of having some of her old 
hard-working friends in the profession down for a good 
holiday.” 

She and Fay corresponded regularly. Sometimes it 
was rather difficult to make out Fay’s scrawls, with their 


A SICK MAN’S FANCY 


339 


extraordinary phonetic spelling and enormous dashes, 
but they had grown into the habit of talking their thoughts 
aloud to one another. Claudia was often surprised how 
much Fay comprehended of what she wrote her. There 
were things she said and wrote to Fay that she would 
never have communicated to any other woman, not even 
Pat, so that a strong link had been forged between them, 
a curious bond which made life more possible for both of 
them. Claudia often forced herself to be gay and cheery 
when she wrote to Fay, and she read between the lines 
when Fay's jokes rang a little false. Jack wrote and told 
her that Fay was too stunning for words — high praise for 
him — and that she didn’t often cry now, and since she 
had got the idea of being moved — it was pathetically easy, 
seeing how small she was — and having some of her pals 
down for a week or two at a time, to give them a good 
spree, she chirped away like a sparrow about it all day 
long. 

“H’m.” Lady Currey pursed up her small mouth. 
“Most unsuitable neighbourhood for such people.” 

“It’s a very beautiful, healthy neighbourhood, and I 
think it’s a splendid notion of Fay’s. I’m proud of her idea.” 

Lady Currey was crumpling up her eyebrows when 
Gilbert called out to Claudia. He wanted a book fetched 
from the library. Claudia never attempted to be too 
sympathetic with him, nor did she proffer any, even 
friendly, caresses. Gilbert had made it so plain that he 
merely considered her as a useful secretary. His father 
was getting old and his son was sometimes impatient with 
his slow brain ; his mother was — his mother, but she could 
never be trusted to find a book or look anything up for 
him. But Claudia was quick and practical, and he never 
had to explain anything twice. 

After she had fetched the book she lingered irresolutely 
by his chair. His hair was going very grey, and his body 
had grown heavy and flabby, but in the face he looked 


340 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


much healthier. His skin was a better colour, and the 
circles round his eyes less pronounced. His nerves were 
distinctly less ragged, he was beginning to sleep quite 
well, and the cardiac symptoms had not shown themselves 
for some time. 

“Gilbert,” she said, “Colin Paton is coming down on 

Sunday Why have you not wanted to see him? He 

was awfully kind at Le Touquet. Have you ever properly 
thanked him?” 

He did not look up from the book, but she saw that 
he had been listening. 

“Oh! I think I did. Besides, didn’t you thank him? 
You and he are great friends.” 

“Do you complain of that ?” How beautiful the leaves 
of the copper beech were under the sun. The grass at 
their feet was flecked by little jumping shadows, as the 
slight wind ruffled the branches. 

“No. I have every trust in Colin.” 

Claudia gave a sharp exclamation, and threw up her 
head. “What do you mean by that, Gilbert? Isn’t that 
an extraordinary statement to make about your friend?” 

He still kept the book open. She saw that it was a 
book on Trades Unions. 

“Why do you pretend not to understand me?” he said 
coldly. “I have told you I do not object to your friend- 
ship. Why do you pretend that you do not know Colin 
is in love with you? I suppose he came to Le Touquet 
partly to be with you. Wasn’t it he who suggested you 
should come?” 

“No, it was Mr. Littleton You are absurdly mis- 

taken. Why is it men will never believe in a man-and- 
woman friendship? Colin is in love with my sister.” 

She expected to see him start, but he did not. He did, 
however, look at her, with a curious, critical, upward gaze. 

“Did he tell you so?” 

“No, but — I know.” 


A SICK MAN’S FANCY 


34i 


“Really !” But the tone lacked conviction. He com- 
menced to turn over the pages of the book. 

It was only a sick man’s fancy; it must be. And yet 
Gilbert had had no other kind of irrational fancies. He 
had remained his old egotistical self, multiplied by about 
four. Her voice was a little agitated as she put her next 
question. 

“Gilbert, I wish to know something. It is only fair 
you should answer it, as you made — a statement. What 
gave you the idea that — that Colin cared more for me 
than as a — friend?” 

He shrugged his shoulders. “I have been trained to 
observe men and women, and my observations of Colin 
lately — I had nothing to do at Le Touquet except watch 
such things, which, as a rule, do not interest me — coupled 
with one or two facts, such as his going away as soon as 
our engagement was announced, and that he has not 
married, have led me tq think that, as you put it, he cares 
more for you than as a friend.” 

Claudia drew in her breath jerkily. “But it’s Pat, I 
tell you — Pat.” 

“I am glad to hear it. I certainly thought he was in 
love with you. But as he can marry Pat and he cannot 
marry you now, I am glad to hear it ... . Claudia, will 
you go into the room where the periodicals are kept 
and see if you can find a copy of the Fortnightly — some 
time last year — which has an article entitled 'Labour 
Unrest.’ I daresay you’ve heard my father is having some 
trouble in Langton. The workers in the paper-mills have 
been threatening to strike for some time, and we want 
to nip it in the bud. I think the article was late last 
year, about October or November.” 

Claudia moved across the lawn, her brain furiously and 
chaotically working. She thought it was the heat of the 
sun that made her feel confused and giddy, yet a moment 
before she had not felt it. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


AROUND THE CORNER 

I T was Saturday morning, and a very warm day, when 
Claudia started out from the house to meet her sister. 
The station was nearly a miie away through the fields. 
She had refused the offer of the dog-cart, although after 
she had been walking a few minutes she rather regretted 
her decision. The sun at half-past twelve was grilling, 
and there was hardly any breeze to stir the long grass, 
rich with big ox-eyed daisies, waving red sorrel, yellow 
trefoil, and all sorts of field flowers. She kept her sun- 
shade well over her head, but it is really very tiring to 
walk in the heat on an August day. 

She wondered why she felt so listless and depressed. 
Why did she feel that life was simply a barren desert? 
Probably it was the result of having to listen to the 
pompous old vicar the previous night, who had engaged 
in a deep but narrow discussion with Sir John on the 
degeneration, ingratitude and irreligion of the working- 
classes. The talk had been brought about by the dis- 
satisfaction in the mills at Langton, some ten miles off, 
from which Sir John derived a large part of his very 
handsome income, and as Claudia had listened, she had 
342 


AROUND THE CORNER 


343 


wondered with a mild amusement what Colin would think 
of the views expressed around the Currey tablecloth. 

She ought not to be depressed when Pat — jolly, good 
natured Pat — was coming down to see her, and she tried 
to be severe with herself as she swept through the grasses. 
She must not be gloomy when Pat was coming down to 
announce her engagement. True, her own experience of 
married life had not been ideal, but Colin was different, 
and anyway, one had no right to dash the hopes of the 
newly-engaged. Some married couples are happy. She 
must be glad. She was glad. If it were not that inflated 
windbag, the vicar, it must be the remembrance of her 
own happy anticipations when she had first become en- 
gaged to Gilbert that made her feel blue. The sun to-day 
did not seem brilliant and wonderful, but only tiresomely 
hot. The long, luscious grass was not an exquisitely soft 
carpet, but only rather long for walking. The station 
was not one mile away, but many miles. 

At last, however, the little sleepy station was reached, 
and she sank with a sigh of relief on one of its wooden 
seats. 

Pat and Socky did fall out together, and then Socrates, 
being a friendly and remembering beast, nearly knocked 
Claudia down in his demonstration of joy at seeing her 
and being once more on terra firma. 

“Socky, shut up, you beast. . . . Look out, Claud, he’ll 
break your string of pearls .... My dear, you are bloom- 
ing! If I could burst into poetry — Socky, leave my 
ankles alone — I should say you were like a red, red rose, 
or an apple-tree, or something equally unlike a woman. . . . 
Socky, come away from that pond. Can’t you see Auntie 
Claudia has got on a nice, white muslin frock? Darling, 
I’m awfully glad to see you.” 

How boyish Pat looked in her grey linen coat and skirt, 
and neat white silk collar and tie. It seemed almost 
absurd, the idea of her getting married. One could easier 


344 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


imagine her having a wrestling bout with her lover, as did 
a certain Cornish heroine of fiction. If she had been 
espousing some happy-go-lucky, high-spirited youth of 
her own age it would have seemed more feasible — but 
Colin Paton! 

“Mother has become a Roman Catholic,” chattered Pat, 
“or she is going to become one when there’s a vacancy, 
or however they do it. Why? Oh! she’s tired of the 
professional spooky people, and she now finds that the 
‘greatest and only true mysticism’ — her words, not mine — 
is to be found in religion. She’s going into retreat, she 
says. As a matter of fact, I suspect she is going to have 
a new skin treatment that Rhoda is raving about, and 
which takes three weeks, during which time you have to 
lie perdu. She is going to pray for all of us and repent 
very picturesquely of her sins in purple and grey, not 
being able to commit quite so many now. She says that 
her liking for incense foreshadowed this. I told her she 
couldn’t become Saint Circe and pose in a stained-glass 
window, however much she tried ; but her new role is to 
be very patient, oh ! so sweet and patient.” Pat laughed. 
“She isn’t a bad sort really — she stumped up for all my 
bills the other day — only why on earth does she want to 
pose so much? Ah! the ‘Three Compasses!’ That’s 
the ducky window — dost see? If there were anyone 
impressionable about I should do the sentimental act 
from that window. He would call ‘Let down your hair, 
let down your hair, Patricia,’ in a sepulchral voice, and I 
should carefully remove about twenty hairpins, two side- 
combs and a piece of tape, and then lean out with a 
fatuous smile.” 

“Well, Colin is coming down to-morrow, you tell me. 
No doubt he will oblige.” 

Pat shook her head. “He’s too sensible for those 
tricks. Besides, he doesn’t admire fair hair. I will not 
let down my hair to a man who prefers dark hair.” 


AROUND THE CORNER 


345 


They entered the inn, and were shown up to a quaint- 
shaped, homely bedroom. 

“Pat, Lady Currey graciously extended an invitation 
to you for lunch to-day, but I told her a fib. I said I was 

engaged to you for lunch here Now, tell me the— 

secret.” 

“In a minute Do you like apples, lots and lots of 

apples? Would you like to be buried in apples, rosy- 
cheeked, luscious apples?” Pat grinned at her sister as 
she threw off her coat and commenced to wash her hands. 

“I like them tolerably,” smiled Claudia, watching the 
noisy ducks waddling in the pond. “But why ?” 

“You’ll like them intolerably soon. Wait till they arrive 
in barrels! But, as the novels say — I anticipate. Over 
lunch I will to thee impart the great news. Glory ! Halle- 
lujah ! there’s an imitation of a bathroom. I shall have to 
bath in instalments, but I had awful visions of an egg-cup 
in my bedroom. No, wait till we’ve started lunch.” 

“I can guess one thing,” said Claudia, with a slight 
effort. “You are going to leave home. The house of 
Circe will soon be empty of her children.” 

“It will. Where’s that wild beast gone to ? He mustn’t 
kill all the ducks. Oh, here he is! You idiot, that’s a 
turnip. Turnips don’t need catching. You are discred- 
ited as a sportsman. Anyone can catch a turnip 

Well, do you remember the talk we had when I said 
matrimony was not for me and you pretended not to 
believe me?” 

“And now ” 

“Now I’m sure of it. Look at me well, Claudia. I am 
a woman to be respected. Here at this table behold a 
farmeress! Salute her with the gravy-spoon!” 

“A what!” 

“A farmeress — feminine of farmer. I am the legal 
owner of a fruit-farm in Canada, and another of Eng- 
land’s unemployed will, at the beginning of next month, 


346 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


emigrate and leave the sinking ship. It’s rude to stare, 
my dear sister. Isn’t it a brilliant idea? Alone I did it. 
At least, no. I got the idea and Colin Paton helped me to 
get the farm and see that it was genuine and above-board. 
Why, Claud, old girl, what’s the matter?” 

For suddenly Claudia found herself half laughing, half 
crying, and nearer hysterics than she had ever been in her 
life. She had a silly, light-headed sort of feeling that she 
could not account for. She seemed suddenly freed from 
a suffocating sensation that had oppressed her lately. She 
had never before experienced the sensation of wanting 
to laugh and cry at the same time. Indeed, she had 
always despised people who got so muddled in their 
emotions. But though she made an effort to keep on 
laughing — there was nothing really to cry about — the 
tears ran down her cheeks. 

“It’s all right, Pat It’s being shut up with the 

Curreys and the strike, I think. . . . Oh ! Socky !” For the 
dog, very perturbed, was standing with his feet on her 
shoulders, showering moist kisses upon her. “Socky, go 
away give me some water .... all over.” 

Pat surveyed her anxiously, and she saw that although 
her sister’s physical health seemed perfect, her eyes were 
those of a woman who lies awake at night thinking. 

“Claudia, old girl, you want a change. Come to Canada 
with me next month. Do — it will do you a lot of good.” 

Her sister shook her head and absent-mindedly wiped 
her eyes on the serviette. “Go on, tell me more about it.” 

Then Pat, her eyes shining with excitement, told how 
an article on the future of women as fruit-farmers in 
Canada had fired her with a desire to do something real, 
as she expressed it, to get out of the smug, bandboxy 
life she was living. She had consulted Colin, who en- 
couraged her, and all through the summer they had been 
investigating various farms that were for sale, and only 
a few days ago had they finally settled on one in the Win- 


AROUND THE CORNER 


347 


mpeg district. “Colin was no end of a help to me,” con- 
cluded Pat, “because, of course, I should have been done 
in the eye like Martin Chuzzlewit was. But this is a 
good farm and belongs to a woman who wants to give it 
up, but she has consented to stop with me as long as I 
want her, so I can learn the whole box of tricks. Claudia, 
I know I shall love it. That’s what I meant by apples 
just now. I shall send you barrel-loads, simply barrel- 
loads.” 

Claudia asked if their father and mother had given 
their consent, though Patricia was of age and had her 
own income. 

“Yes, in a sort of way. They think I’ll come back in 
a few months, but I shan’t. I told you long ago I was a 
throwback. I love the earth and all that pertains to it, 
and what’s the good of wasting my youth and energies in 
what the papers call Society? It’s all right for those 
who like it. I’m not slinging any adjectives at it ; but I’m 
not made that way. I want more scope. But, seriously, 
will you sail with me next month for a holiday to see me 
settled?” 

“I should love it, but you see — I’ve got a husband.” 
Then, half-smilingly, yet with a touch of sarcasm, she 
added, “I’ve become useful to him, Pat. He compli- 
mented me the other day on my neatness and method 
in arranging some documents for him.” 

Pat walked to the little window and said something to 
herself that was very like “Damn !” 

“But he’s better, isn’t he?” she said, turning round 
again. “I shall never forget how scared I was when 
they got him back to the hotel at Le Touquet. They had 
to support him on the grass-roller. I was afraid he was 
dead, he looked so awful. I begged him not to go on 
playing, but you might as well ask an elephant to tread 
in a whisper. It was that climb up to the fourteenth 
that did it. But his heart is all right again now ? Does 


348 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


one quite get over a thing like that? It’s all vague to 
me. What’s the anatomy of a heart? Does something 
heal up?” 

“He will have to be more careful than formerly not to 
over-exert himself or get excited. But Neeburg says 
there are many people with worse trouble who live to be 
ninety. But let’s come out into the sunshine and sit under 
a tree !” She went to the door which opened on the small 
garden. “Oh ! isn’t it a glorious day ! Come and tell me 
more about the apples!” 

As Claudia went back to Wynnstay that night she won- 
dered what she could tell Gilbert about the mistake she 
had made. Was it necessary to go up and gratuitously 
inform him that Colin was not engaged to Pat ? She had 
made a blunder. Ought she to correct a wrong impres- 
sion ? Was it a wrong impression on anyone but herself ? 
Gilbert’s attitude had certainly been one of quiet scep- 
ticism. 

The sun was setting, and the earth was very peaceful 
and restful after the hot day, as she walked up the long 
approach to the house. Now she was alone, she ought 
to be able to think out why Pat’s unexpected secret had 
moved her so strangely. But somehow, she had not want 
to probe into her feelings to-night. She only knew she 
felt happier than she had done for a long time. But then, 
Pat was a cheering person, she would have enlivened 
a graveyard. She hummed a little song as she walked, 
the drowsy birds twittering a half-hearted accom- 
paniment. 

Pat and Colin came to lunch with them next day, for 
though Pat had made a hideous grimace at the prospect, 
she had ultimately agreed that she had better pretend to 
be a well-behaved person. She had urged Claudia to go 
with her to the station to meet Colin, but her sister had 
for some reason undefined, even to herself, pleaded the 
heat and the distance. Besides, was he not really coming 


AROUND THE CORNER 


349 

down to see Pat? Not in a lover-like way, but still to see 
her. Was he? Was he? 

She took out his last letter from Manchester. Some- 
how it seemed to read differently from the day she had 
received it. 

“When are we going to forgather ?” it ran. “Letters 
are always so inadequate. I have crowds of things to 
tell you, and why don’t you write more about yourself? 
Your account of life at Wynnstay was most amusing. I 
could picture the deadly regularity of its clockwork, but 
what about the alien in its midst? Has she become a 
carefully adjusted machine too? I know what it must 
be to live with the Curreys day after day, and I wish I 
could help you in some way. I am sending you down 
a couple of books I think you will like, and a newspaper- 
cutting in which you will see I am described as an earnest, 
middle-aged man ! Rather a blow, that ! I wonder if I 
do impress people that way ? Of course, it was probably 
written by some reporter at the back of the hall, but — 
’tis a horrid thought. Earnest ! Middle-aged ! I’ve still 
got two thirties to spare. ...” 

At lunch — or, as Sir John would insist on everyone 
calling it, luncheon — she did not sit next to him or have 
an opportunity for any private conversation. She had to 
be content with a long look and a smile. The vicar and 
his wife always dined with them on Sunday, and there 
were two or three other people, quite uninteresting, but 
very chatty. Claudia wondered vaguely why uninterest- 
ing people generally are chatty. 

It was not until nearly four that Claudia found herself 
free to talk to Colin, and she had been sitting so long that 
she jumped to her feet as the vicaress was lost to sight. 

“Let’s go for a little stroll before tea. Colin, do you 
know the view from the windmill? It’s rather jolly. 
Come and see it. Get up, Pat.” 


350 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


“No, mum, it’s too nerve-racking looking after Soc- 
rates. Now he’s chained to the tree I don’t want to 
disturb him. No, go thou to the view. Peradventure 
thy servant will slumber a little. Those beastly ducks 
and a perfectly abominable creature called a guinea-fowl 
wouldn’t let me sleep this morning, and the hardness of 
the bed wouldn’t let me sleep last night. These facts, 
combined with an English Sunday lunch (I beg his par- 
don — eon) make me what writers call somnolent. Go 
away and leave me to somnol.” 

Claudia gave a great sigh of relief as they turned out 
of the gates of Wynnstay, and he looked at her with 
quick sympathy. 

“It isn’t an exhilarating existence at Wynnstay, is it?” 
he said. “I know how you feel about it. But it won’t 
be for much longer, I gather ?” 

“No, thank goodness. It is rather dreadful. I either 
feel perfectly comatose or so irritably alive that I want 
to scream. Don’t let us talk about it. Let me tell you 
how glad I am at the success of your book. What a 
magnificent notice you had in the Times. Don’t you feel 
on top of yourself?” 

“I won’t pretend that I’m not glad. But, honestly, it 
has been rather a surprise. I had a horrible feeling all 
the time I was writing it that it was vieux jeu, that it 
had all been said before. It is charming to find people 
so appreciative,” he concluded modestly. 

“You’ve waited and done something worth doing,” said 
Claudia slowly. “That was prophesied of you long ago.” 

“My waiting was pure laziness,” he said lightly. “The 
silent man is not always the wise one, though he does look 
unutterables.” 

“Well, I’m glad, I’m very, very glad,” said his com- 
panion simply. “It gives me quite a thrill when I read 
the notices. Now tell me about Pat and her farm.” 

Claudia found that he had gone into the whole matter 


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351 


very thoroughly, as he did everything he took up, and 
that Pat, through him, had made a very sound and prom- 
ising bargain. 

“And you approve of Pat going out there?” she said. 
“It sounds rather mad. Suppose I took a craze in my 
head to go out to Canada and farm, would you do all this 
for me and pack me off with your blessing?” 

He laughed. “You and Pat are two very different 
propositions. Besides, you are not a bachelor like Pat.” 
“No.” 

There was a slight pause. 

“Pat doesn’t seem to want to marry. She snaps her 
fingers at your sex.” 

“Oh! that will come later on. She’ll marry right 
enough one day, when the right man comes along. Pat 
isn’t unfeminine or a crank.” 

Claudia shot a sideways glance at him as they walked 
in step together. They were passing a hedge fragrant 
with honeysuckle and she stopped and picked a piece. 

“Do you know — oh! do you mind getting that top 
piece — I once thought you had a — a fancy for her.” 

He looked down at her, honeysuckle in hand, a curious 
twinkle in his grey eyes. “I’m very fond of Pat, but not 
as a wife, thank you. I’m neither old enough nor young 
enough for her. Middle-age would not mate well with 
the Amazon.” 

“What ridiculous nonsense! The reporter was blind. 

You don’t look middle-aged Are you ever going to 

take a wife, Colin ? Thank you. Doesn’t it smell sweet ?” 

They were approaching the top of the hill on which 
stood the windmill revolving very slowly, and from 
whence a magnificent view of the country around could 
be obtained. Perhaps the jerks in their conversation were 
due to the need of economy in breathing, for the climb 
was fairly steep. 

“Do you insist on my marrying?” 


352 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


“No. . . .of course not. . . . Isn’t it hot? Why did I 
choose this walk? But most men get married sooner or 
later, and — you — don’t dislike women, do you? You’re 
not unmasculine or a crank! But as a matter of fact,” 
she added recklessly and breathlessly, “I’d rather you 
didn’t, I think.” 

She thought he gave a little exclamation, but she could 
not be sure. 

“Why would you rather — I didn’t?” 

“Married friends are never the same as before they 
were married. Oh ! here we are at the top at last ! Isn’t 
the view worth the climb? No, please, don’t get married. 
I — I don’t want you to.” 

What was she saying? She hardly knew, except that 
it was the truth, the plain, unvarnished truth. She had 
really hated the idea of his marrying anyone, even Pat. 
There was something in the air this warm summer after- 
noon that made her take a reckless joy in saying the 
things she should have decently hid. 

“I — I don’t want you to,” she repeated, suddenly rais- 
ing her eyes to his as they stood side by side, each appar- 
ently a little breathless still. 

She found he was looking at her and the quiet strength 
of his face was all broken up. The eyes looked at her as 
they had looked once before. When? When she had 
been flirting with Frank Hamilton at her mother’s. 

And suddenly she knew. 

It was as though something that had always been hid- 
ing round the corner for many years unexpectedly came 
into view. And with the knowledge came a rush of joy, 
so great, so overpowering, that she reeled. Instinctively 
she put out her hands and he took them in his. 

“Colin, I never knew until just this minute. Isn’t it 
curious I’m so glad, so glad.” 

The hands held hers very tightly, the warm, capable 


AROUND THE CORNER 


353 


hands that had always held her heart so safely, so 
securely, if she had only known it. He was looking at 
her as though he could never look enough. She knew 
now the love that she had wanted so badly, so desperately, 
had been at her side all the time, faithful, tender, and, 
what means so much to a woman, understanding. 

The scent of the honeysuckle, delicately persistent over 
the other field flowers, was around them both. The wind- 
mill across the field was giving slow, rheumatic creaks. 
A bird was chirping noisily in the bushy hedge. 

'‘Claudia, you can’t mean that you ” 

“Yes I think I have always loved you, only I didn’t 

realize it. The very strength of my love made it so 
quiet that I didn’t notice it. When you are a girl you 
imagine that love will come with a great stir and noise, 
with a flourish of trumpets, so that all your senses will be 
deafened, and you will be bound a captive. One doesn’t 
think of it as a great, noiseless, silent thing.” She gave a 
queer little laugh that was a half sigh. “One always 

expects the big drum, a sort of circus, in fact Oh, 

my dear ! I’m so glad I know. That’s all I can think of 
now.” 

As she looked at him she saw that his love for her had 
taken its toll. There were little lines round the eyes — 
lines of repression, of unsatisfied desire that had not been 
there when she first knew him. He had suffered in that 
year in the Argentine when, because he was very human, 
he could not bear the sight of her happiness, when he had 
fled from her. He had schooled himself to be her friend, 
to aid her whenever she should call upon him, after that 
year, but it had not been done easily. Most men would 
have ridden away, unable to fulfil the demands of friend- 
ship, unwilling to bear the continued sting which the 
sight of her brought them. She saw now that his one aim 
had always been to make her happy, he himself had 
always come in a poor second. Gilbert had wanted her 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


354 

to make him happy, and she had chosen — Gilbert ! 

“Oh, Colin !” she cried, “I don’t deserve that you should 
have gone on caring for me all this time.” 

“Claudia, I can’t believe it. I’ve hungered for your 
love so long that, like a starving man, I can’t eat. I tried 
to be content with your friendship. I tried not to think 
of you in any other way, even when ” 

“Yes?” 

How steady and tender her eyes were. 

“Even when I knew you were not happy. I’d given up 
all hope. I had almost made myself believe I was content 
with your platonic affection.” 

She laughed a little mischievously. 

“Shall I take my love back? Ah, no! I couldn’t. It’s 
been out of my keeping so long. Yes, it’s true, Colin.” 
She blushed hotly. “I will be honest. I have felt passion 
for two other men, Gilbert — I thought that was passion 
born of love — and another. But the best part of me has al- 
ways mated with you, always loved you. And yet I didn’t 
discover it until I thought you were going to marry Pat.” 

The word marry sobered both of them a little, but did 
not detract from their happiness. 

“Colin,” she said gently, “why did you let me marry 
Gilbert ? I asked you once before in a different form. I 
think — I am almost sure, I was ripe for love in those old 
days when we used to poke round picture-galleries and 
book-shops together. I was always perfectly happy with 
you. Didn’t that mean love ? Why didn’t you tell me ?” 

“My dear, I wanted to give you plenty of time. Per- 
haps it was a mistake, but I felt it was your due. You 
were so young, so beautiful, such a success in Society, 
that I wanted you to have every chance. I’m nothing in 
particular, and I didn’t feel it was fair to press my suit 
until you’d got to know what the world and men were 
like. You see, you were always a little romantic, ideal- 
istic, enthusiastic, and such women as you are difficult 


AROUND THE CORNER 


355 


to woo fairly. One is afraid to take advantage of you. 
Because we were good chums didn’t necessarily mean 
that you could be happy with me as a husband/’ 

“And yet isn’t friendship, comradeship, the best foun- 
dation for marriage?” 

“Some people say yes, some say no. I suppose one 
can’t generalize. It depends on temperament, age, expe- 
rience, many things. I adored you, but that was natural. 
There were any amount of men who adored you. I 
thought I knew those you were at all likely to marry. 
Oh! I watched carefully, sometimes agonizedly. And 
then, as your turned them down one by one, I began to 
hope Your engagement to Gilbert came as a bomb- 

shell. Gilbert, my old college friend ! Why, I was hardly 
aware you knew him, except that you had been neigh- 
bours as children.” 

“I didn’t He just carried me off my feet. I can’t 

think, even now, how it happened a sort of intoxi- 

cation — youth, music, passion. In those days he was very 
much the male animal, and you see. . . .it was the flourish 

of trumpets. .. .1 was deafened I thought it was 

the real thing, just because I was moved. When will 
women learn that the men who move them physically are 
not always the men they really love? No one can say I 
was brought up ignorantly; there were certain broad- 
minded, lax ideas I grew up with side by side, but I didn’t 
know. I thought it was love, because I liked the feeling 
of his arms around me. The two things are so horribly 
alike at crucial moments. If only they were differently 
dressed !” 

“I know I never moved you that way.” 

“You never tried. If I had once thought of you as a 

possible lover who knows? At least, I have learned 

what a large part a woman’s imagination plays in the 
game of love, but the woman is poor indeed who finds 
nothing for her imagination to feed on after marriage. . . . 


35 ^ 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


Why,” she exclaimed in wonderment, “I can’t imagine 
life without you. As I look back I see that our friend- 
ship has been a thread in my life for years, and I really 
believe the whole fabric would fall to pieces without it. 
Unconsciously I have always turned to you, always ap- 
plied your standards to things.” 

“Claudia!” 

“Yes I think you saved me from a terrible mistake. 

... .You said I wasn’t to speak of it. But I must now, 
just this once, then it goes into the realm of things utterly 
forgotten. You remember the night you found me on the 

stairs I expect you guess somewhere near the truth. 

Don’t look like that. It was as much my fault as his. 
I was ready to snatch at anything to fill my life. I 
thought I could — but I couldn’t.” 

“It wouldn’t have made any difference to me,” he said 
steadily. “I should have understood the reasons that 
drove you to it.” 

She looked at him, and marvelled that what he said was 
true. 

“But I’m glad,” she whispered, “that I — couldn’t. It 
would have made a difference to me. I think we should 
not have been standing here now. It wouldn’t have 
lasted, I should have gone on plunging. . . . Let me tell 
you something. That night your card was on the mantel- 
piece in the studio. I picked it up, and from that moment 
my mood changed. Somehow you seemed in the room 

with us Then I hated the way he had painted me. 

I knew you wouldn’t like it, and I wouldn’t like you to 
see it exhibited. I didn’t want to be that woman — because 
of you. I see it now. I didn’t understand why my mood 
changed at the time. Now it’s clear to me, and I can 
only marvel that I have been blind so long.” The mingled 
tenderness and strength of her face were very beautiful, 
as she added, “That temptation can never happen again. 
I shan’t feel so restless any more.” 


AROUND THE CORNER 


357 


He drew in a deep breath. “Claudia, it’s like an im- 
possibly sweet dream that you should be saying these 
things to me. I know what you have meant to me for 
years 5 but that I can mean anything to you! Is it all 
quite real? You are sure it doesn’t come from your 
generous heart, just to comfort me, now you have found 
out my secret ?” 

“It’s real,” she smiled, standing in front of him, and 
putting a piece of the honeysuckle in his buttonhole. “It’s 
the only thing that is real in my life. Fay and I have 
both been trying to fight, each in our own way — she’s 
helped me too with her pluck and courage, but now this 
makes the fight much easier. Now I shall go on almost 
happily, because I’ve got my wish, the greatest wish in 
the world.” 

“And that is ?” 

“To be first with the man I love. I am first, am I 
not ?” 

“Don’t you know? Need you ask? If — if I ever had 
the chance, my one aim would be to make you happy, 
because — a man is always selfish, you see — that would 
make me happy.” 

“And that knowledge does make me happy. You and 
I belong to one another, just as much as iT we were mar- 
ried, wherever we are, whatever we may do.” Then she 
gave a little laugh of contentment, and threw out her arms 
to the countryside, so green and smiling all around them. 
“This afternoon you and I, Colin, are on the top of the 
hill. We’ve climbed away from the stuffy, humdrum 
houses in the valleys. To-day we can shout and sing and 
be glad! Do you know, I seem to hear that Sullivan 
madrigal ringing in my ears, ‘All creation seems to say, 
earth was made for man’s delight’ — do you remember? 
I am so happy, so happy. But it won’t always be as easy 
as it is this afternoon. We’re of the earth, earthy. At 
least, I am very earthy sometimes.” 


358 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


“My darling,” he cried, passionately, more moved than 
he had ever been in his life, “you are the most wonderful 
woman in the world !” 

“Dearest, shall I tell you a secret in the greatest of 
confidence? You won’t tell anyone? Tm not. I like 
to think you think so, but Fm the most 'ornery’ person, 
really. I shan’t remain on the hill-top. I shall sigh and 
groan and grunt inwardly, and — I shall want you just as 

much as you’ll want me I should hate to think you 

were too placid without me, I should hate to see serene, 

ethereal content in your eyes But if you know I’m 

feeling just as you are feeling, but, like you, resolutely 
sitting on those feelings, it makes it easier, doesn’t it ? 
Sexless, unemotional people never helped anyone. And 
because we look things in the face we won’t be afraid to 
meet as friends ; we won’t run away from our happiness 
and — our pain; we won’t fret because of a mistake that 
we can’t alter, will we? We’ll just make the best of 
what we have, shall we?” 

“Everything shall always be exacfly as you wish,” he 
said, raising her hands to his lips. For a moment she 
wished that he would take her in his arms and kiss her, 
just once. Then she knew that he was right. Things in 
the future would be hard enough without that memory. 
For this was no sudden rush of passion that she felt, so 
that she longed to have his arms close round her. This 
man, standing on the hill-top with her, was her mate, her 
man, and naturally all that £he had or was was his, by 
Nature’s unalterable laws. If she could have then and 
there gone away with him, there would have been no 
hesitation, no fear, no breathlessness, only a joyous and 
calm acceptance of the beauty that such mating would 
hold for them. 

After a while he said, <f I shall go back to Manchester 
to-morrow, but at any time you send me the word ‘Come,’ 
I shall be with you by the next train. If you feel you 


AROUND THE CORNER 


359 

want to talk to me, if you are in any difficulty, you won't 
hesitate to send for me ?” 

“No.” 

When they arrived back at Wynnstay they found only 
stewed tea, an empty cake-dish, Patricia and an unrepent- 
ant cheerful Socrates under the trees. 

“He demolished the plate of cakes at one fell swoop 
when my back was turned, and Lady Currey has gone into 
the house in disgust. She finally, I am sure, washed her 
hands of the Iverson family. A little cold stew?” Her 
blue eyes, at present so sexless and so keen, noted the 
exaltation of the hill-top upon their glad faces, and she 
raised her eyebrows as she peered into the teapot. 

“Well, she’s tumbled to it at last,” she muttered. “And 
I can go to Canada with an easy mind. I don’t care what 
she does or does not do with Colin Paton.” 

“What on earth are you muttering about, Pat?” 
laughed Colin. “Is it an incantation to the Family Genie 
— the teapot?” 

Pat looked at him with a broad and bland smile. 

“I was thinking out your epitaph, Colin Paton. But 
it will keep for a few years yet.” 


CHAPTER XXIV 


THE STRIKE 

I N the weeks that followed, Wynnstay was galvanized 
into life through the political and economic fray 
brought about by the discontent at Langton. Sir John 
and Gilbert talked the thing out ad nauseam, for Sir 
John was infuriated at what he termed the ingratitude of 
the mill employes whom he had kept going for so many 
years. Had the Curreys even considered another point 
of view than that of the capitalist it would not have been 
uninteresting to Claudia to experience at close quarters 
one of the big problems of the day. But all Sir John's 
narrowness and bigotry came out in the contest, so that 
even Gilbert had occasionally to tell him to moderate 
a little. It was most important that the men at Langton 
should be conciliated and kept on his side, in order that 
the seat should be safe for Gilbert, but how to do that 
and at the same time enforce his will upon the men was 
something of a difficulty. 

On September the 20th practically the whole factory 
went out on strike, and Sir John nearly had apoplexy in 
his wrath. 

“My mills ! The mills my father had Before me ! The 
men I’ve employed regularly in good times and bad! 
It’s outrageous. Parliament ought to deal with such 
things. The country is at the mercy of the Labour 
party.” 


360 


THE STRIKE 


361 


“I always was against this genera! education, 1 ” cried 
Lady Currey, examining a new piece of Sevres she had 
just acquired. “Why, one of Robson’s children is a 
school-teacher/’ 

Robson was the ringleader in the strike, and a few 
months before had come to loggerheads with Sir John. 
One of his daughters — not the school-teacher — had gone 
away from the village some four years previously, and 
had recently returned with two children and no husband, 
and Sir John had refused her application for an empty 
cottage or to take her back again in the mill. Sir John 
said, “One must uphold the principle of the thing.” But 
as Claudia gradually learned, Sir John had never been 
popular, and though Robson’s grievance had inflamed the 
workmen, they had been in a state of ferment for some 
time — partly because they had become infected with the 
strike fever, and partly because Sir John refused to 
replace some old machinery with the modern which is 
used in most big paper mills. He was a strictly just 
employer and landlord, but he did not err on the side of 
leniency. 

“I won’t give way. I won’t be intimidated by these 
scoundrels. You agree with me, don’t you, Gilbert?” 

“Yes.” Gilbert’s lower lip protruded pugnaciously. 
“Give way now, and you’ll have no more peace. After 
all, you can afford to shut down for a time ; then they’ll 
come to their senses.” 

This went on every day in different forms, explanations 
to visitors all sympathetic to the Curreys, accounts in the 
daily papers, until Claudia was glad to go over to Rock- 
ingham and see Fay and her strange guests. 

For they were very strange, according to Rockingham 
ideas. Fay had asked them indiscriminately, the only 
qualification being that they needed a holiday and could 
not afford one. Old Joey Robins was there, watching 
over Fay like a grotesque old clown in a wonderful 


362 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


medley of garments that he imagined were suitable to the 
country. He had obtained from somewhere a pair of 
white flannel trousers, very much shrunk and yellow 
through washing, a brown velvet coat and a grey Trilby 
hat much too large for him. There was often a little mis- 
hap with the glazed white front which would pop out of 
the black waistcoat, but his celluloid collar was always 
spotless. A girl who did sand-dancing and had broken 
down in health, a once famous comedienne who had lost 
her popularity, an acrobat who had injured his foot, and 
a woman with a young baby, who had been deserted by 
her husband, were her other guests on this particular 
morning when Claudia went over. Fay, who was get- 
ting very thin and hollow-eyed, gave them of her best, 
for she had insisted on paying for the venture herself, and 
had, for that purpose, sold all her much-loved jewellery. 
“I shall never want it again,” she had said to Claudia, 
biting her lips to keep back the tears. 

Claudia had helped her to furnish the big old house 
with simple, comfortable furniture, and had procured a 
staff of servants to run it. And because of their liking 
and pity for their odd little mistress with her extraor- 
dinary ideas the servants stayed, though the vagaries of 
the guests, the conflicting orders of Polly — “head cook 
and bottle-washer,” Fay called her — and the nurses nearly 
sent them distracted occasionally. When things got in 
too much of a tangle Claudia’s presence was urgently 
demanded. 

On this particular morning Fay was lying out under 
one of the big trees, the comedienne, a stout woman in 
her sixties, with the most obvious toupee Claudia had 
ever seen, sitting beside her doing “a bit of crochy.” A 
little way off was the dancer, a thin, white-cheeked girl, 
engaged in making a pink muslin blouse from a pattern 
out of a penny journal, and snipping the bits over the 
lawn. The acrobat, in full view of them all, was doing 


THE STRIKE 


363 


amazing stunts on the grass for their amusement. 

Claudia had met them all before. Behind her back she 
was voted “a perfect lady, such high class, don’t you 
know.” More than that, they liked and admired her. 

“Madam, welcome !” cried the acrobat, coming towards 
her performing the most extraordinary double-somer- 
saults. “I bow to you ! I go down on the ground before 
you! Hail !” 

There was a chorus of laughs from the group under 
the trees. Claudia never failed to marvel at the ease with 
which they were amused. 

“You’re too funny to live,” cried the dancer shrilly, 
who was by way of having a flirtation with him. “I 
don’t believe you’re no man at all. Your mother made a 
mistake. You’re a piece of indiarubber.” 

“My mother was a highly respectable lady,” returned 
the acrobat, with his hand on his heart, “and her portrait 
is here. It wasn’t her fault she had a genius for a son. 
I say, is that a pocky-hanky for me you’re making?” 

“No, silly, it ain’t. It’s a blawse. Do behave yourself 
while Mrs. Currey’s here, or I don’t know what she’ll 

think of us Oh! there goes the old muffin-bell for 

dinner. Funny how my pecker keeps up here. I get a 
hole in my bread-basket long before it’s time to 
feed.” 

“Well, my dear, you take all you want or can pocket,” 
called out Fay hospitably. “No charge for a second 
helping here, and the meat isn’t all gristle and bone, like 
the chops the landladies get you.” There was a chorus of 
assent. “If there’s anything you want, you’ve only got 
to mention it.” 

“You’re an ainjool, that’s what you are,” said the girl 
emphatically. “It’s like ’Eaven to be here. It ain’t ’alf 
doing me good, not much ! I can pinch a bit up on my 
arm now. Talk about State Insurance ; you give me Fay’s 
insurance.” 


364 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


There was a general hearty murmur of agreement, and 
they all trooped off. 

“I can see you didn’t have a good night,” said Claudia 
solicitously. 

“No, I got the jim-jams a bit. How sweet you look 
in that frock ; and yet, really, it’s awfully plain, isn’t it ? 
Hardly anything on it except the lace collar. It’s only 
really handsome people who can wear them plain things. 
I always have — had to have — lots of fluff. ... I say, is it 
true you’re going back to town next week?” 

“Yes. My husband is so much better that he hopes 
to get back to his chambers again.” 

“Crikey! whatever will I do? I wish you could have 
stopped here.” 

What a little face it was now under the big white 
chiffon hat that Madame Rose had sent her as suitable for 
the country ; her idea of country being apparently drawn 
from the “sets” at the halls. 

“I’ll come down quite often, dear. Then you think of 
stopping on here?” It had only been started for the 
summer months. 

“Well, it’s perfectly amazing what a lot of people want 
a holiday — no bunkum either ; and somehow” — she looked 
round the neglected old garden ; it had only been super- 
ficially tidied up, but it was full of flowers — “I don’t want 
to leave here, now I’ve come. It’s awful sweet, isn’t it? 
I used to think I hated the country and that it was beastly 
slow and tame, but I like to smell the flowers — different 
somehow to those you have in vases — and I like to see 
the birds jigging about so mighty busy over nothing. 
Wouldn’t my old pals laugh at me ! Fancy me watching 
the birds ! The only bird I ever thought of was the one 
the gallery gives you sometimes. Not that the boys ever 
gave me the bird. Once I had a little trouble with some 
young fool that started to hiss in the middle of my song. 
It made me that mad ! I stopped right dead and I looked 


THE STRIKE 


365 


up and said, ‘Well, come down here, my boy, and sing 
something better/ Ah, I got him! They started clap- 
ping me till you couldn’t hear yourself speak. Ah, well !” 

Claudia laid her hand on her sister-in-law’s, but Fay 
was quite cheerful again when she spoke. 

“And I think I’d like to be buried in the country ; it’s 
so clean and nice. Such a lot of smuts in town. Ever 
been in Kensal Green? My mother’s there. They sub- 
scribed and bought her a grave. But I can’t stand Kensal 
Green; gives you the bloomingest of humps. No, I’d 
like a nice, clean tombstone with bits of ivy and things. 
It would be such a trouble to bring me down from town. 
.... I don’t feel I want to be moved much more, only 
from the house to the garden while it’s summer/’ 

A rush of tears blinded Claudia, for Fay said it in such 
a natural, unaffected way that it was inexpressibly 
pathetic. 

“My dear! Don’t!” 

“Oh! I am a beast to make you miserable. I didn’t 
mean to, darling. Between ourselves, I shan’t be sorry 
when it’s finished now. I’m ashamed of all the trouble 
I am to the nurses, though they don’t complain — me, that 
used to be so nippy on my feet and do everything for 
myself. I’m more trouble than a baby.... Well, you 
never know what you’ll come to, do you? My mother 
used to say, ‘You’re born, but you’re not buried/ She 
had a bad time before she turned up her toes, poor old 
thing. I might be in a worse place than this. I might 
have been in one of those hospitals. Got a horror of 

hospitals myself I told them you’d have lunch out 

here with me. Here it comes.” 

She waited until the servant had gone, then she leaned 
towards Claudia and said earnestly, “I want you to 
promise me something, Claudia.” 

“Yes, Fay, what is it?” 

“When I do the shuffle, you see that there are pars, in 


366 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


all the papers, with my photograph. You’re soon for- 
gotten, but that’ll wake ’em up. The Girlie Girl’s got to 
have her farewell performance. I know I can trust you. 
I say, these peas remind me that Polly wants to see you 
about the kitchen-garden. She says the gardener is 
cheating us on the peas. Never seen anyone as sharp as 
she is now. She’ll count the pods every day soon. She 
loves it here.” 

Claudia spent the day there, getting glimpses into 
strange ideas and modes of living, and arrived back at 
Wynnstay about six. Directly she got inside the house 
Lady Currey came out of the drawing-room in a very — 
for her — excited state. 

“Oh, Claudia! what do you think? We’ve just heard 
that the strikers have become violent, and they are ston- 
ing the windows of the mills and the police are powerless 
to keep order. Poor John is nearly beside himself. I do 
hope he’ll take care, with the stones flying about.” 

Claudia gave an exclamation of surprise. 

“You don’t mean he has gone over to Langton?” 

“Yes, he would go. He thought if he talked to them 
he might calm them. I’m sure I don’t know. It’s all 
very dreadful, something like the French Revolution. 
Oh, dear ! Oh, dear !” 

Claudia from where she stood could see through the 
open door of the library where Gilbert usually sat in one 
of the big chairs. But the room was empty. 

“Gilbert — where is he?” 

“He’s gone too. He promised to look after John and 
keep him calm.” 

“What! You ought not to have let him go. When 
did they start?” 

“About four o’clock. I wanted them to wait for tea, 
but they wouldn’t. It takes three-quarters of an hour to 
drive over. I don’t know what the world is coming to. 
I’ve always sent them a lot of things for their rummage 


THE STRIKE 


367 


sale, and last winter the blankets that I sent would ” 

“Gilbert ought not to have gone. Why didn’t you stop 
him? You know what Dr. Neeburg said. He isn’t fit to 
go into a scene of excitement like that. He is just as 
furious about the whole thing as his father. He is not 
strong yet. How could you let him go ?” 

“He says he feels quite well now,” stammered Lady 
Currey, not liking the look in her daughter-in-law’s eye. 
“I told him he wasn’t to try and address the men.” 

“I should think not.” 

“They ought to be back soon,” concluded Lady Currey. 
“Oh, dear! I feel so faint and queer.” 

Claudia thought the situation over rapidly, but there 
was nothing she could do. It would be no good going 
over to Langton. Probably they would be returning by 
now. If only Gilbert would believe other people occasion- 
ally! Neeburg, when he had come down and given 
Gilbert permission to go back to town, had told him em- 
phatically that he would still have to take things very 
quietly for another year or two. And he had gone with 
his father to face an infuriated rabble of strikers ! 

“Stones are so dangerous,” feebly remarked Lady 
Currey, “but after all, men know best. I’ve never inter- 
fered with my husband.” 

Claudia said nothing more as she went to take off her 
hat. She wished she had been at home. Yet, after all, 
if Gilbert had made up his mind to go, would she have 
been able to prevent his going? The Curreys were not 
used to women “interfering,” and he was not a child. 

It was nearly seven when she went downstairs, but the 
carriage had not returned. Sir John had refused to have 
the house put on the telephone, so they could get no 
news. She and Billie went into the library, and she tried 
to read, but it was only a pretence. Her ears were listen- 
ing for the sound of carriage-wheels. It was almost dark. 
Surely they ought to be home by now. Still, a horse- 


3 68 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


brougham is not like a motor. The hills were rather 
worse coming back. 

At half-past seven Lady Currey came in, carefully 
arrayed for dinner. 

“Claudia, aren’t you going to dress? You’ll be late.” 
Though the heavens might fall, Lady Currey would punc- 
tually and carefully dress for dinner. 

“I’m getting anxious,’* said her daughter-in-law shortly. 
“They will be late too.” 

“Yes, I’m afraid so, and there’s a fish souffle. John does 
so dislike a heavy souffle. But of course it can’t be helped. 
It is late. You don’t think any accident has happened?” 

“I hope not.” 

“Claudia, do you think it is healthy to nurse a dog on 
your lap? But there, he’s your dog! Oh, dear! Oh, 
dear!” 

Another quarter of an hour elapsed, and Claudia was 
just getting up to do something — she hardly knew what — 
when at last she heard the sound of wheels. A growing 
sense of disaster lifted. The wheels had a homely, en- 
couraging sound. For once there was some irregularity 
in the Currey menage. Claudia rushed to the door herself 
and opened it. 

She peered out into the sweet-scented darkness, but the 
brougham was closed. That, at least, was wise of Gilbert, 
for the night was a little chilly now. 

“We were getting so anxious,” she called out to two 
white, blurred faces she saw within. “What a long time 
you have been away.” 

Then a figure, unfamiliar to her, alighted. Surely there 
were only two people in the brougham. She heard Lady 
Currey behind her exclaim “Dr. Green !” in tones of sur- 
prise. 

The man turned again to the brougham, and helped out a 
very old man. As Claudia saw the limpness and dejection 
of Sir John she turned sick. Something had happened. 


THE STRIKE 


369 


The coachman shut the door. 

Dr. Green and her father-in-law came up the steps, the 
doctor supporting the older man. Why did Sir John need 
support? He was usually quite hale and hearty for his 
age. 

The coachman was making ready to drive away. Where 
was Gilbert? 

With fascinated, frightened eyes she watched the two 
mount almost abreast of her. 

Then the old man raised his eyes, as heavy and sombre 
as Gilbert’s and now dark with suffering. 

“Gil ” Claudia tried to articulate, but something 

choked her. 

“Where’s Gilbert?” said his mother behind her. 

The eyes of the old man told her nothing, but the eyes 
of the doctor were full of pity for the two women. It was 
the same look as had been in the doctor’s eyes the night of 
Fay’s accident. As she saw it, Claudia instinctively put 
up her hand as if to ward off a blow. 

The old man tried to explain. 

“He would speak they’ve killed him wouldn’t 

listen to me. .. .thought he could God have mercy 

on us all !” 

“Do you mean — he’s dead ?” whispered Claudia. 

The old man passed on heavily into the study. The 
doctor answered her very gently. 

“It was too late when I got there Heart failure. 

I’m told he knew. Mrs. Currey, I am dreadfully 

sorry.” 

Claudia tried vainly to realize that what had been a 
few hours previously was not. There was no such person 
as Gilbert Currey. She, Claudia, was a widow. 


CHAPTER XXV 



HE windmill was creaking in the same protesting, 


JL painful manner as Claudia climbed the hill where 
she and Colin had stood more than a year ago and looked 
at the view. But the waving fields of corn were all cut 
now, only a yellowish stubble remained. The hedges were 
beginning to show the approach of autumn, the yellowing 
leaf, the reddening berry. But it looked very much the 
same, just as peaceful and full of promise, though harvest- 
time was over. The sun was warm, but not so hot as it 
had been that Sunday afternoon. 

Claudia felt her pulses stir as she gazed around her, for 
there is a richness and beauty in autumn that the earlier 
months lack. She seemed to feel Nature tugging at her 
sleeve, whispering in her ear, calling to her to rejoice that 
the fruit of the earth was ripe, the time of waiting was 
over. 

It was more than a year since she had gone to live with 
poor Fay at Rockingham, but Fay was asleep now. As 
she stood there she thought of her with tears in her eyes, 
and her face turned to where in the distance a cluster of 
white gravestones lay bathed in the rays of the sun. By 
an ironic coincidence she lay in the same churchyard as 


370 


'COME 5 


Gilbert, though the grass had not yet grown over the 
little music-hall artiste. Death had loosened the feeble 
hands that had clung so desperately — ah ! how desperately 
in the last few weeks! — round her neck, and that duty 
was done. 

She stood leaning against a gate, thinking a little 
soberly but not unhappily of many things. Then she drew 
forth a couple of letters from her pocket. The first that 
she re-read was from Pat, giving her a buoyant descrip- 
tion of the harvesting on her farm, extolling the work and 
the climate, and cataloguing with evident pride the 
bushels of fruit that the trees had yielded. 

“Do come out, Claudia, now poor Fay has gone. There's 
nothing to keep you in England ; at least, if there is, bring 
the impediment with you. You must be tired out after 
all the troubles of the last year. I am really very worried 
about you, and if you don't come I shall have to leave 
the farm and fetch you. Colin writes me you are looking 
very pulled down. You are a brick to have stuck at 
Rockingham, but that’s finished now. I’m writing to 
Colin by the same post. When I left I gave you to him 
with my blessing ! Like my cheek, wasn’t it ? 

“But, seriously, the trip would interest you, and I 
won’t feed you exclusively on fruit ! I think Colin would 
like to see my farm. Fancy his blossoming into an M.P. 
I’m so afraid he’ll lose his sense of humour in the 
House....” 

Claudia laughed a little as she put back the letter in 
the pocket of her white golf-coat. 

The windmill creaked, and the wind rustling the dry 
leaves in the hedges blew her white serge skirt against her 
ankles, and seemed to sing “Go ! go ! go !” 

The other was from Colin. She turned to the passage 
she wanted. It was on the last page. 


372 


CIRCE’S DAUGHTER 


“Dearest, I don’t want to suggest any unseemly haste. 
It is always for you to make the decision, and I shall un- 
derstand and acquiesce in anything you wish. Only, 
sweetheart, I am a good many years older than you, and 
time has cheated so many lovers. Shall we let him cheat 
us of any more years? Oh! if you only knew how I 
long for the time when we shall always be together, when 
just a whispered ‘Claudia’ will bring you to my side! 
You are with me in thought every hour of the day, but I 
want your dear presence. Dearest of friends, best of 
chums, when will you let me make you my wife ?” 

The wind fluttered the pages of the letter, so that she 
could not read any more. The sun was warm on her 
bare hand. All the earth seemed to say “Don’t delay 
any longer, don’t let the gods think you are ungrateful 
Are you afraid of happiness ?” 

She raised the letter passionately to her lips. 

“My Colin ! My man !” 

Then hastily thrusting it into her pocket, she half- 
walked, half-ran down the hill to the village. Her cheeks, 
a little thin from her self-imposed task, were a bright pink 
with excitement, and her whole body was aglow and 
superbly alive with the exercise as she pushed open a 
small, clanging door at the foot of the hill. There were 
oddments of sweets, toys and newspapers in the window, 
and a small boy who had just purchased some sweets that 
looked exactly like bootlaces stared at her in dull surprise 
as she passed him with a radiant smile. She had not 
just spent a whole halfpenny in two separate farthings’- 
worth at the sweet-counter, so why should she look so 
happy ? 

At the end of the shop was a small post-office depart- 
ment. The atmosphere was stuffy, and reeked of seal- 
ing-wax and tobacco. But the telegram would go all the 
same. 


“COME’ 


373 


The romance of all the ages, of all the world, was in 
that piece of formal, ruled paper. The room might have 
been perfumed with attar of roses, and the boy with the 
liquorice bootlaces might have been Cupid himself ! The 
telegram was not going on the prosaic wires, but on the 
wings of Love! 

Yet, when it was written, it only contained two words, 
beside the address : 

“Come. Claudia/' 


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